


A Deal He Can't Refuse

by Youarenothuman



Category: Band of Brothers, Mafia style
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate universe - Mafia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youarenothuman/pseuds/Youarenothuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Band of Brothers- mafia style- 1940s. </p><p>I'll make him a deal he can't refuse....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A good story must have a starting point, a hook that grabs the readers. A slice of action. A chase. Gunshots. Someone dying seconds after whispering their famous last words which are only made clear in the last chapter.  
> Or we could start with a prologue; explaining how everything ended up as screwed up as it currently is. We could even start with the end, if the end is a real hooker.  
> But this story begins at a funeral.
> 
> I'm looking for a beta if you would be so inclined :)
> 
>  
> 
> *I don't own any charcters or the real men that they are based on used in this video, this is made for fun and not profit* Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use.  
> I mean no disrespect in anyway to any of the original men of Easy Company. I respect their bravery and their sacrifice not just for their country, but for the countries they helped. This story is based upon the charachters of the mini series. And even then, I am only basing my men off their looks, names and a few of their minor characteristices.

 

 

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_I hereby regret to inform you that Don_ _Robert Frederick_ _Sink_ _has gone to the sky after engaging the enemy. Your frequent letters of love and presents have armed us with a fighting heart and with that we will not fall victim to our sadness, but shall honor him in glory. We are ever grateful to your service in our hour of need, and so invite you to his funeral on the 21 st of March._

_Signed, Herbert M. Sobel, Don_

_

 

“Read it to me Spiers.”

I look down at my boss, currently sitting behind his light oak desk as he hands me back the envelope I had crossed New York to hand to him personally. The old man has wrinkles lining his cold blue eyes and his gnarled fingers that are like the limbs of an ancient oak are still waving the sealed envelope at me. Scared to miss yet another beat, I gently pull it from his hands, taking an old family letter opener off his desk and swiftly cutting through the Easy Company’s eagle seal in one fluid motion. Clearing my throat, I pray my sweating palms won’t tarnish the rich writing paper. Not wishing to appear weak in front of the man I have worked hard to meet after all these years, I pray that the letter conceals good news. All eyes in the room are on me as I shakily read the first line before switching back to my usual bored tone as I uncover the contents. Gulping, I lower the letter and place in back on the writing desk as the gentleman leans back, his hands pressed together in front of his cold smile.

“Herbert Sobel.” I hear him muttering to himself as I remain upright, wondering if I should take my leave. As one of his enforcers, the lowest rank in the family, I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting the intimidating figure who hands my work down to me through the ranks. The Don plans with the Underboss, who hands it down to his Capo’s, who go out with their squad of ten Soldiers, and then there are button men, the family’s men of the street: the Enforcers.

“This is good news. Herbert Sobel, Don! Pity about Robert, he was always a good man to have your back. A lot of people will mourn his passing, and a lot of people will suffer because of it. But Sobel is taking over? This is better news than I could have prayed for.”

He chuckles to himself for a second, before motioning to his consiligere to rise from his armchair. A consiligere is a personal adviser to the family, usually a close friend of the Don who handles the legal façade for the family.  With the other hand, he dismissed the other men, Capos, standing around, adding a stern order to not leave the building yet. I turn to follow before Albert York, Don of the Fox Company family, holds up a hand and calmly says:

“Ronald, come here, there is business to attend to.”

After recovering from the shocking news that he knows my name, I step back into position as we begin plotting our reactions.

 

-

 

Three months. That’s how long I give them until they fall apart. Four tops. Sobel isn’t much cop.

These are my thoughts as the mourning friends pass in front of me. Bored, I let out a sigh and wipe my forehead with a handkerchief beneath my black hat. The 21st of March, the date of Don Sink’s funeral.  In less than a week, I’ve been made into a Soldier and am now high ranking enough to be present. Money has already started rolling in and my future in Fox is looking bright.

I look up to notice the Underboss of Easy, Winters, is staring at me with his calculating ice blue eyes. Not wishing to be outdone, I glare back until he turns to make his speech.

Winters. There in lies our problem. Sobel is easy prey. The first sign of hostile intentions, he’ll run. But seeing the honest grief in Winters eyes at the death of his old boss, something at the back of my head tells me that whilst Sobel may fall, Easy’s Capo’s will be sticking around under the watchful eye of Richard Winters.  And whilst others may underestimate the so called Quaker, the unwavering loyalty from his Capos proves there is something about him that no one outside of their family knows.

 

\----

 

“Military training is a brand new concept in American mafia’s history, and by god Easy Company has forged that brand new concept into victory. I want you to know I’m proud of each and every one of you.”

Gathered in the guesthouse, I can’t help but stand on the spot, join in the polite clapping as Sobel reads out Sink’s personal letter to us. It’s been a year since his death; a year under Sobel's reign. Sobel had immediately clamped down hard on us, enforcing plans he had made with Sink in case he should ever die. In a week, our numbers had halved, but after a mere month, each remaining man was at twice their strength and twice as cunning. With my promotion to Capo, I, Carwood Lipton, found myself holding the remaining men together as each day we ran three miles around the bay before returning to the compound where we were either sent out under Sobel’s orders or given more training under Winters.

   I send a disapproving glance at Winters, who is always alone, never with a man to watch his back as he watches Sobel’s. Every man in the family would lie down their life if it would save his. But the man is always alone. Maybe that is our curse. In exchange for living the American dream, maybe we must sacrifice ourselves and all our relationships and stand alone together.

The moment this thought crosses my mind, I laugh at my foolishness. Alone? The men of Easy? Never. Under Sobel iron fist rule of hard physical work and even crueler orders, the men have formed a never seen before bond among themselves. Martin and Randleman, two of the Companies Capos. Bill Guarnere, Capo, and his right-hand Soldier, Joe Toye. Luz who you can rely on to be down at the Lucky Star singing badly with fellow soldiers and Buck. Even outsiders, like Joe Liebgott, I, and newcomer Capo Harry Welsh are welcomed with open arms. Just as long as you hate Sobel and respect Winters.

 He stands perfectly straight as Sobel’s right-hand man, outwardly cold and off limits, but his eyes warm and filled with care. I’m one of the few that knows that whenever even a simple enforcer dies, it’s Dick who pays a visit to the family. He’s the leader of our company, and he doesn’t even know it. Too busy playing errand boy to Sobel. He’d make an excellent Don.

And it’s that thought that brings me back to reality to see that Guarnere has been studying me, both of us not listening to Sobel ongoing speech. He nods like he’s reading my thoughts and agreeing with them.

“If only there wasn’t Sobel” he mouths with a wink. I shake my head at the dark haired American before pushing his comment out of mind. It would do no good to dwell upon that idea. An idea that already tempts me too much, pulling and nagging at the back of my mind. Is Sobel going to get us all killed?

Later, whilst I’m checking on each table, the new ginger capo motions to me from a dark corner out of earshot.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of grumblings.”

“About Sobel? Just been thinking about that.”

“Heard he gets a bit jumpy in the field.”

“Got Enforcer White killed. Winters wasn’t so happy about that. But I really don’t think this is the time or place to be discussing it, Harry.”

Bearing a gap-tooth smile, the man knocks his glass, of the weakest beer on the market, against mine. “Understood. We’ll talk about it later. Bill has a plan.”

Something about his sad eyes opposing his happy smile makes my heart stop. Another one of Bill’s brilliant plans, oh I have a bad feeling about this.

But before I can leave later that night, a note in Bill’s handwriting is slipped into my hand by Toye who winks before turning and slipping back into the crowd, sneaking the other identical slips into all the Capo’s pockets. With my stomach turning over on itself, I nervously open the note as I slip from the house.

_“My house. One o’clock. Capos only.”_

Of one thing I’m sure; we’re going to get lined up against the wall and shot for this. But glancing back in through the window, I watch as  Sobel sniffs people cups and breath, making sure nobody has added extra whiskey. Under Sobel, alcohol, women and all forms of fun had been prohibited. Tonight is the only exception to celebrate his one year reign.

  From my point of view, hidden behind a bush with a fragrant white flower, I watch Luz finish off his drink in one gulp, and sneakily pass the whiskey bottle to Winters as he passes behind his chair. The man’s eyebrows rise, but without breaking his stride, he takes the bottle and heads into the kitchen, out of Sobel’s sight. As I move towards Bill’s house across the road, I hear Sobel start shouting at Cobb and a chair being knocked over.

_Yes, we could get shot for this, but I’m willing to accept the consequences._

_  
_

\---

 

I lie, relaxed and a bottle of Vat 69 in hand, as I watch the various men file into Bill’s house over the hours until one o’clock, all of them shooting me looks. Last of all, Bill himself arrives, shaking the rain water off his hat before hanging it up next to the door.

“Winters is covering for us.”

“He knows what is going on?”

“Of course not Harry. You’ve been around long enough now to know I’m not an idiot.”

Here the gap-toothed ginger raises his hands as the other men chuckle at his innocently surprised expression.

“Smartarse. But Winters needs to remain out of this.” Here, picking up a bottle from the kitchen counter, Guarnere shoots a look my way. “Isn’t that so Nixon?”

I nod as the other men exchange looks. They’re still trying to place me, figure out why I’m here in their secret meeting. As Wild Bill and I smirk at their expressions, one of them with bright blue eyes, Compton I think, suddenly smiles and extends his hand towards me.

“Mr. Nixon of Nixon nitration works, I presume?”

“A pleasure.” I wearily shake his waiting hand, but thankfully, and to my surprise, the others don’t haste to do otherwise, just nod at me in recognition. Starting to truly smile for the first time, I begin appreciating the band of men that Sobel has formed.

“Listen, I’d rather not waste much more time. My bottle’s nearly empty and my dog is waiting for me back home. Oh and the wife. As you have now figured out, I’m Lewis Nixon, CEO of a major company here in New York. I’m also a trusted friend of Winters.”

Here I pause as I notice a middle aged man with a scar across his cheek but a soft voice glance at Bill with a quick uncertain eyebrow raise.

“Of course I checked out the man who randomly appeared at my doorstep with a business deal Lipton. I’ve just said I’m not an idiot. Winters not only knows him, he actually smiled when I mentioned his name.”

Here a few of them chuckle among themselves, claiming that it was a good a proof as any. Frowning slightly, I raise an eyebrow at Lipton, who has relaxed and is now smiling at me with ease.

“Winters doesn’t smile often. In fact, I figured he didn’t even have a close friend like you.”

An unfriendly Winters? I try to compare their version of the man against the ginger who had shaken my hand with a firm grip at one of the family’s business parties, had charmed over my wife with a small smile and had slowly, without me even being aware, become the center of my entire life. If I need someone to sign a deal with me and they turn me down, I rely on him to set him straight. If I drink too much at the bar, I will listen out for his footsteps coming to pick me up. In fact any day I arrive home to find he hasn’t dropped by for a chat and isn’t watching me hang up my coat with a small smile as he sips a glass of ginger beer, my heart sinks.

“I’m just glad he has someone.”

The remark comes from a strong looking blond from the corner. A man who speaks little but means what he says, as I have learnt. Now everyone is truly relaxing around me and I can see their partnerships emerging as they move around to their normal seats.

“So anyway I turned up on Wild Bill’s doorstep here a week ago after Dick let slip that Bill was unhappy under Sobel’s lead. An opinion which seems to be common to everyman here.”

“I will not follow that man into combat. And a war is coming at the rate he is pissing people off left right and center.”

Everyone starts nodding slowly, the mutual feeling saying more than anything else could. Sighing sadly to myself, I take a swig, swallowing the burning liquid down my throat as I run the back of my hand over my wet lips.

“And I guess that you are here to help us with our problem. I can’t help but wonder why.”

“Because, Martin, if Winters becomes Don, I hope to become consiligere.”

Here the man seems to be thinking this over as the other men tense. After rubbing his stubble, he looks to the blond who spoke earlier, Bull, who just shrugs.  Martin nods slowly at him before nodding at me and the other men relax again.

“As good a reason as any.”

“Good, then this is what I have in mind…”

 

\---

 

“Godfather, have you heard the rumors?”

Sighing, the old man’s weary eyes focus on mine. A sly grin forms on his face as he answers.

“Which ones Spiers?”

Which ones? Why only the most disturbing ones of the hour! Which other rumors could he be going on about…? Oh.

“Concerning Don Sobel’s death.”

The Don’s gaze turns elsewhere, but not before I catch a glimpse of what looked like anger in his eyes. Coward, they seemed to be yelling at me. Coward? Me? I’ve neither confirmed nor denied the rumors about me shooting that Soldier! But that’s not cowardliness, that’s smart. It’s a tactical move in this one huge chessboard of a game called Life.

“Yeah. I’ve heard them.”

He sounds bored. Something here is out of place; but I just can’t figure out what. Surely he’s thinking of the same thing as me, unless he’s heard differently.

 “Do you think they’re true sir?”

His gaze is back on mine, staring holes into my eyes as I try to read his expression. All I find is a quiet joy in his posture and a haunting laugh in my ears as he replies.

“Only as true as the rumors surrounding you. The truth depends on who you ask, don’t think Spiers?”

 

\---

_Dear Sir or Madam._

_We regret to inform you that Don Sobel passed away last night. He died a hero after maintaining our family at its former glory. I can only hope to live up to my men’s high expectations. Unfortunately his funeral shall be a private one, but please feel free to visit him at his plot in the New York cemetery at any time after the 30 th of May_

_Yours, Richard Winters, Don_

 

\---

 

To this day, Sobel’s death is an act surrounded in mystery. Many say he died in a fight, a hero, whilst some believe his death is due to natural causes, simply passing away. But the wise ones look towards Easy’s Capos: the men who remained silent at his funeral and refused to honor his death.

 Lewis Nixon, the family’s consiligere since Winters promotion, refuses to comment except to declare he personally believed to Sobel to have been a genius to have formed such a tight knit family.

Winters gave no reaction to Nixon's words except slowly whistling Beethoven’s symphony seven under his breath.

_-David K. Webster -New York Times._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I've now completed the plan for the story, so updates should be faster! Thank you for the comments guys :D 
> 
> I should point out this fic is basically Liebgott/Webster, with a sprinkle of Winters/Nixon, and a few chapters in, Lipton/Speirs. But you see a lot of the others , using making sarcastic comments in the back ground. And I certainly 'pair them up' (or in one case, three them up) but you can view those as friendships or something more :)

David Kenyon Webster is a journalist; an upcoming journalist. Do you know what the upcoming part means? It means every single person is making an effort to read your articles. Everyone means your boss, your colleges and loyal readers of the newspaper.  Not because they care or because they like your writing style. No, the truth is they are waiting for you to make a mistake; a spelling mistake, an unconfirmed source, a slipup. Which means that being the next upcoming journalist really drags a guy down.

 

Webster sighs, and drags a hand down his face, rubbing it red. He is currently standing at a local market in Currahee, an, ironically, upcoming district of New York. Whilst the location is new news, the family guarding it isn’t. Easy Family have been around since before Webster was born, and it has been protecting the district before that. However Webster’s editor wants him to scoop out the new place and get a feel for the recent reform of the family.

 

All of this means that all of Webster’s attention is currently fixed upon the ginger gentleman currently sitting down calmly in an uncomfortable looking garden chair, shaking hands with everyone going by. Behind him, a dark headed fellow is constantly checking an antique pocket watch and glancing around.

 

The Nixons are one of the main reasons for Currahee’s new lease of fame. Previously completely disconnected from the family, they had found a space in the market for them to leap into and have climbed up the ranks through hard work and a sweaty brow. A much more honourable way of building a company, since their other option would have been to ask for help from the Easy Family, who could have had their company up and running within a few phones calls. Webster had been trying to find a dirty secret in their records all week, but everything was extremely clean. Not suspiciously clean, they had pulled in a lot of help from their friends to get them off the ground, but nothing close to scandalous. Nothing that could impress Webster’s boss and earn him a promotion.

 

So David had moved on to the Nixons themselves. Nixon Senior and his wife have moved to Sicily, away from the stressful life of New York and they have handed over the reins of the company to their only son.

And there is enough gossip about Lewis Nixon to fill an entire newspaper, but nothing that anybody couldn’t see from merely watching him. He is a wild child, complete with the tell-tale wicked grin and expensive drinking habits. He doesn’t keep up appearances, he drinks like he’s celebrating the end of a war, his wife is having an affair and the man knows about it, and he somehow manages to keep managing the company going, and growing, whenever he is sober. Well Webster has yet to see him sober, but whenever he is conscious.

 

And as a middle finger to his family, he’d formed a close friendship with Richard Winters, the at-the-time Underboss to Easy Family. After the convenient death of Sobel, and David had already written his article about that suspicious affair, Nixon had risen to a whole new level of riches when he became Winters’s consiligere. When Winters took over, they relocated to Currahee, and Nixon moved his buisness next door to Winters's new home. 

 

The only corner Webster thinks he could angle at is the obvious sexual tension between the two men, and that is a sure way of getting himself shot in the head.

He watches as Nixon finally stops pacing, garbs a chair and casually throws it down next to Winters, turning it to face backwards in true bad boy manner, and settles down next to the man. Winters glances at him gently and there is a warmth in his eyes that Webster wishes someone would direct at him one day.

Maybe he could sell it in an ironic understatement, calling them a power couple. Because it doesn’t matter if Webster writes the article or not, Nixon is dragging Winters into the spotlight kicking and screaming. Or in Winters case, the equivalent is a raised brow and slightly pursed lips.

 

Either way, Nixon has finally stopped checking his watch, but that has less to do with Winters distracting him and more to do with their appointment showing up in the form of a heavy footed bulk of a man. Throwing a meeting the middle of the market. Classy. But a good way not to be overheard on a neutral ground.

 

The man had a fedora pulled so low over his eyes that Webster couldn’t even begin to describe him. And he’s a journalist, he describes everything he sees. But the man has that shady look about him that most Families try to stay away from. In fact, even as he watches from his spot on a bench a few meters away, he can see the outline of a gun hidden behind his back.

 

Webster closes his eyes and breathes heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. Gangsters having guns is normal. In fact, he knew for certain that his is safely stored away on his bike about 10 meters behind his head.

He opens his eyes and glances around, looking for Soldiers among the crowd. But to his surprise, and his panic, he can’t spot Buck’s almost white hair or Randleman chewing on a cigar anywhere in the dancing crowd.

 

He is an up and coming journalist with a filthy history. And present. He had no family, they’d shoved him off onto friends so they could go and join the war efforts, merely leaving him with their money and a home. Being alone in the world meant Webster had read a lot and developed his love for writing. But it also developed his love for an adrenaline rush, and the one stable way to achieve it had been to ride a bike at stupid speeds through the town and turn at break neck speeds. From that, he’d gained a reputation of clever handling of his bike, and soon enough he’d been contacted by the local gang interested in his skill set. And hence his life as a low life gangster had commenced. He’d stayed away from the drugs, most of the booze and became the good guy that people relied on in a drive by. He is an up and coming journalist with a filthy history and then last thing he needs to do is throw himself into danger for a man to whom he has no alliance.

 

But the shady figure keeps clasping his hands behind his back, a discreet way of checking his gun is still there. Nixon seems to slowly becoming aware of the situation, a small line appearing on his forehead. He knows something is going on, but he doesn’t know what. So Webster does what he knows Nixon can’t and glances up in the air to check the rooftops.

 

It’s market day and there are people everywhere dancing. Webster finds himself cursing them all as he tries leaning left and right to see around their swaying bodies. There. On the building behind the meeting. A man has settled down behind some chimneys but Webster sees the flash of sunlight on the barrel of the rifle. He breathes in and out again. _Stupid and reckless._

 

Webster stands up anyway and walks calmly away from the scene. He reckons they have until the end of their little conversation before the sniper starts lining up his shots. The first shot will be on Nixon whilst the shady figure fires on Winters. He probably has on a bullet proof vest under his overcoat. And why isn’t the Don being protected by his Capos? A festival is the perfect place for a killing, nobody takes in the faces around them nor can they hear shots over the too loud music. _Stupid_.

 

Webster reaches his bike and stands there, wondering if he should simply throw his leg over it and drive off. Instead he pulls back the cover to one of his bags and exchanges his old camera, the flash created by a disk on top, for a .44 Magnum. A standard biker gun. He’s had it for years and has grown to know it inside out. Turning around, he stores it behind his back, kept in place by his waistband, just like the shadowy man at the meeting. _And reckless._

 

The he slips through the crowd towards the private meeting. Slowing as he draws near, he somehow manages to catch Nixon’s gaze, who is clearly becoming more and more aware of the situation as his eyes have been flitting around for the last few minutes. Without stopping, he walks past them and lifts up the back of his shirt under the pretence of starching his back, exposing his gun to Nixon. Luckily the man understands that it isn’t Webster he should be worried about but the one in front of him, and turns back to the conversation, distracting the man with a serious conversation.

 

Why aren’t they moving? And how can he make them aware of the sniper without the sniper catching him? He doesn’t dare raise his eyes skywards, and instead makes his way towards the door beneath the sniper, dancing with the dames along the way. A few meters from the door, he twirls around a bird in an orange polka-dot dress with deep dimples who laughs when he spins her. It’s only because the orange of her dress reminds him of Winter’s hair that he remembers to check upon the meeting. Seeing as everyone’s heads are still connected to their bodies, he gently unhooks the girl from his waist and spins her off onto another passing stranger, offering her a fake pretend smile as he does so.  Ignoring her pouty face, he silently slips into the corridor that traverses the whole building, and starts up the stairs towards the roof.

 

He stops for second to drape a towel over the barrel of the gun and lets himself wonder why on earth he is going to risk his neck to save Winters.

He has a job, with the promise of a promotion. He has an apartment in a safe district over the bridge from here, protected by Able Family, Easy’s rival. So technically, his alliance is with them. He is in a gang, a biker gang. He has friends in that gang and he has the love of his live in the form a Harvey Davidson in a matte steel grey.  And yet, he is risking his neck to save a stranger; a stranger that he has been spying on for a month, but a stranger all the same. And the only reason he is risking his neck for them is because, in his one month of observing, he has yet to find a single fault with the kind hearted redhead.

 

Sighing to himself, he takes the last few steps to the roof, and steps back out into the white sunshine. At the other end of the building, the sniper is perched over his gun, his finger waiting on the trigger. Giving himself one last chance to leave quietly, and ignoring it, Webster steps slowly forward, evenly spreading his weight on his feet in order to muffle his movement, even though the joyful yelps and the sound of festival music from the street below do that well enough. A few meters from the edge and still unnoticed, he lifts himself upon to his tiptoes to see if the meeting is still in place. Nixon’s lightly tapping on the back of Winters chair in what seems like a friendly gesture but hopefully a warning of danger. Then, Webster stretches out his arm, makes sure it doesn’t waver, and waits for the perfect moment when the noise level rises again. There. He pulls the trigger.

 

The towel goes up in flames, the crowd dances on without noticing and the sniper’s body tilts dangerously on the edge of the building. Webster throws the towel to the ground, not caring about the risk of a fire, he just wants it away from his skin, and rushes forward to pull the body back onto the roof top. Grunting he deposits the body gracelessly on the ground, stomps out the fire and leaves, heading back downstairs and onto the street, brushing past the orange dressed dame from before who tries to latch herself back onto her arm. Walking past Nixon, he throws an open nod in his direction, clearly showing the need for secrecy is gone. The man motions him over with a tilt of his head, and clearly flicks his eyes towards the stranger.

Great. Just what he needs.

 

 Webster draws himself up, squares his shoulders and clasps a firm hand on the man’s left shoulder, throwing an arm around the man. As he practically hugs the guy, he feels the bulletproof vest through the coat.

“Hey, I recognize you from somewhere.”

He casually uses his other arm to pull off the man’s hat to reveal glaring eyes that seem to wish him a painful and slow death at his hands.

“Ah. Appears I was wrong. Oh well, sorry old chap. You can have this back.”

He shoves the hat back over the man’s eyes, hard, and turns him around and pushes him back into the crowd. Unsubtle, but giving a clear message that this meeting is over.

 

Turning back around, he nearly crashes into Winters extended hand. Blinking to clear his mind, he shakes his hand and is surprised at how firm the handshake is coming from such a lithe man.

“Thank you. I don’t know how we’d have handled that without your help. Don’t worry, we’ll clean up your mess on the roof and in no way will anyone be able to track it back to you.” Explains Winters in a low and steady voice.

 

As Webster nods his thanks, he realizes he’s just been played. Not his disadvantage, but he’s just stumbled upon one of the Family’s forms of defence. Though he’d been watching Winters for many days, and knows that he’s a capable leader, he’d always seemed out of the loop, set apart, unaware of the events unfolding around him. It turns out the man is merely an outstanding actor, making Nixon out to being the smarter one, the one with all the brains, whilst he himself is constantly re-evaluating ever situation to his profit and noticing events around him. 

Nixon is once again staring at his pocket watch but he looks up when Webster turns to leave.

 

“One second, aren’t you going to tell us who you are?”

 

“If you wish. David Kenyon Webster, journalist for the ….”

 

“New York Times? Yeah we know. You’ve been trailing us for weeks.”

 

Nixon slaps a newspaper into his hands, and he looks down to see the article he had written about Sobel’s death, with his name and picture printed underneath.

 

“Having a reputation appears to be more hassle than it’s worth.”

 

“You could say that. But whenever you’re ready to truly make a name for yourself, and quit that low time gang of yours, oh yes we've been spying on the spy, be sure to drop by the Lucky Star. It’s across the street from Nixon Nitration Works. You’ll find most of Easy there, singing badly and stealing money off each other.”

 

Lying a business card down on top of Webster’s paper, Nixon offers him a nod and turns to leave.  Before following him into the crowd, Winters empathizes:

 

“That’s his way of saying thanks. Take care Webster. I owe you, remember that.”

 

\--

 

“Hey, there’s one of those punks in a leather jacket outside. Does anybody have any idea why?”

 

Joe asks, no, demands, as he walks into the Lucky Star at five that same afternoon. A few of the members of the Family are scattered around, chatting or playing friendly games of cards, generally sprawled across each other.

 

“He’s from one of those motorcycle gangs from across the river, from Able territory… the Boomers I think they are called?”

 

“That’s dandy Skip, but why is he here?”  Joe continues past Skip who is playing with matches in the company of Malarkey, heading over to the bar and serves himself a small shot of rum.

 

“Hell, I don’t know Joe, why don’t you go and ask him?” He nods at the bartender who is wiping the counter down at the other end and slaps down a few dollars.

 

“I can’t, I’ve already settled my skinny little arse down on this here barstool.” Joe gestures towards his very content ass as he retorts back at Muck.

 

“Then don’t go asking questions you can’t be arsed to know the answer for!”

 

To anybody out of the family, and probably to the punk standing smoking against his matte grey motorcycle outside, it would appear that Skip and Liebgott are having an argument. But, as the men had learnt years ago, Joe snapping at them is his way of telling them he cares.

 

The conversation is already forgotten when Joe rises to his feet and moves across the room to sit down next to Skip, slinging a heavy arm over the man’s shoulders. After Muck not-so-gently pushes him off as Luz who is sitting opposite, hands over seven cards and names the game they are  about to start to play. And so, by the time Nixon strolls in ten minutes later, with the wide-eyed lad from outside, Liebgott has completely forgotten the boy exists. Both of them grab some alcohol from the bar, the newcomer a beer and Nixon already starting on the heavy stuff, and head over to their table for their usual Thursday night poker game.

 

“So Nixon, who is cupcake here?”

 

“Oh, he’s a journalist. Saved Dick’s arse, well his head really, down at the market today. Thought I might offer him a chance to leave his low level gang behind and join the big guns.”

 

As the boys scatter into a loose discussion over the gangs around the district, Joe motions to an empty stool.

 

“Seat down stranger, don’t be shy. Why don’t you tell Joe Liebgott here your name Darling?”

 

As the boys laugh at his known flirtation technique, that he’s proud to say rarely fails with the birds, Webster obediently sits down and states his name in a matter of fact way.

 

“David Kenyon Webster. Journalist. I live on Able Family territory.”

 

“You’re a long way from home Sunshine.” Joe smirks as the lad colors. How young is he? And which nickname should he keep for him?

 

“Anyway, sorry to interrupt your pulling technique, but I’ll only be playing one game tonight. Or two. I need to meet up with Dick before it gets too late.”

 

Everyone mock cheers at Nixon’s words, except Luz  who knows he will be winning a lot less money tonight. As they settle down to play, Webster is asked by someone at the table, probably Luz, to tell today’s adventures to the group. Liebgott makes sure to arrange his expression to say something among the lines of  _this conversation is remarkably similar to watching paint dry, darling_  as he nods in agreement at the right places. In fact, he makes no secret of the fact he thinks that Webster’s boring and Webster has a hard time telling how much of that is self-defense.

 

Anyway, after five games and five drinks, a fifty dollars poorer Nixon finally decides that he should take pretty boy, _when did he start thinking of him as pretty boy?_ , off to meet Winters. As the boys bid them farewell and wish Webster good luck and to see him again shortly, Joe, who has never said good luck to anyone, decides to see if the new boy has a chance of fitting in.

 

"You know, I totally wanted to fuck you, but then you opened your mouth. So unless you're into gags and shit, this isn't gonna work out."

 

It’s probably merited when Webster hits him.

 

\--

 

“So tell me Nix, what happened to Webster?”

 

Nix shakes his head when he realizes that Winters is speaking to him. He’d fallen asleep on an armchair with his feet propped up on some old business cases during Winter’s discussion with Webster. The tired man seems to try and remember what Winters had asked him and in the end Winters takes pity.

 

“Why did Webster have…?” He trails off and motions towards his face, indicating Webster’s bruise. After staring at his face for a few seconds too long, Nixon seems to realize what Winters was on about.

 

“Oh Joe tested him.”

 

Now that Nixon has woken up, he’s waiting for the lift of an eyebrow on Winters face that clearly asks: And?

 

“Well the lad can throw a good punch. Lucky it was at Liebgott and nobody can be bothered to step up to defend his honor. In fact, I think Skip may have cheered.”

 

Winters smiles and settles back down into his chair behind the desk, tilting it back so he can lie with his feet propped up on the desk. Nixon offers him a glass of whiskey but drinks it before Winters can steal it just to spite him. He smiles in the semi darkness, content at how relaxed he is around Nixon.

 

After Sobel’s death, he’s been working non-stop to keep the family up and running. Through all the stressful days and nights, he’s had Nixon ever present at his side, keeping him going when he felt like falling asleep with his head resting on his arm. For that, he’ll be ever grateful, and he smiles to himself at his choice in consiligere.

 

As they both lie there relaxing in the office, he reminds about a phrase he had told himself one night when he was in the war, before receiving a bullet to the leg that made him unfit for duty. That night, he’d thanked God for seeing him through that day of days and prayed he would make it through to the end of the war. He had also promised himself that if some way he could get home again he would find a nice peaceful town and spend the rest of his life in peace.

 

 Seems fate had another plan in mind. He’d come back, somehow moved to New York, where his abilities as an ex-Soldier had been required by Easy Family. Without even meaning to, he’d found himself stuck back in the routine of the army, watching over his men and informing families of their son’s deaths. Nothing had changed. Things changed only when he meet Nixon at a fundraiser one night. Sink had pulled him over and made him shake the hand of an at the time perfectly groomed man.

 

“Richard Winters. A pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Lewis Nixon. At your service and all of those nice things that we're meant to say to each other. Do you happen to know where the bar is?”

 

And by the end of the evening, as he drove a drunk and a much more disheveled Nixon home, Lewis had reached over and clasped him on the arm.

 

“This is going to be the start of a beautiful and beneficial friendship.”

 

Back in his office, Winters smiles despite himself in the darkness, and turns to watch his friend. The man is no longer what he would call groomed, but Winters finds himself to be more fond of the scruffy look on Lewis, it fits him like a second skin. As he watches him, Nixon opens his eyes and watches him back before smiling sadly.

 

“There’s no other solution Dick.”

 

Winters grimaces to himself. He’s been avoiding naming an Underboss for weeks but Nixon keeps bringing it back up.

 

“There’s really no-one else?”

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

Winters feels like banging his head against the wall, but instead he breathes in, looks at Nixon to himself the strength to continue and picks up the phone.

 

“Dike here.”

 

“Dike, it’s Winters. Pop by on Monday, it’s time to discuss your promotion to Underboss.”

 

Barely paying attention to Dike’s thanks, he stares at Nixon, who is playing with his whiskey glass, running the rim back and forth on his lower lip. When Dike finally hangs up, Nixon sits up and clasps him on his forearm across the desk. Trying not to lean into Lew’s personal space too much, he feels more than hears Nixon whisper:

 

“Easy Family, back in business.”


	3. Chapter 3

_I would just like to remind you that you are an idiot._

_Yes Brain, thank you for your input._

 

Webster glances up at the glass fronted building in front of him with a huge red sign on which is printed Nixon Nitration Works. He parks his bike in the car parking bay in front of it, besides many old pickup trucks and a few rare new sports cars belonging to Family members that stand out from the rest of the common rubble. Behind him is Winter’s mansion where last night the Don had informed him that he could join Easy family, but at the lowest rank: an enforcer. And that if he did some good, and hell he will need to do a lot of good, he could one day become a Soldier. A Soldier is a made man. He is practically untouchable; he’s rich, lives on expensive property and has access to any vice he may want: sex, drugs, guns or even simple power.

Webster throws his leg off the back of his bike and slowly walks towards the glass doors, trying to push down his excitement. Nothing is going to happen today, he will probably spend years, if not the rest of his life, as an enforcer. Being an enforcer means nothing to the family, you are merely someone who promises his loyalty to the Don, the promise that if you may one day be in the situation to save the Don’s life, you will take that chance without a second’s hesitation. But Webster has been in that situation. So really, he had nothing left to prove. In return, an enforcer gets to show off his potential, it’s the one way of someday joining the Family.

 

Either way, he pushes open the wooden frame at the edge of the glass door, noticing that the glass is far from spotless sheet of glass that it appears to be from a distance. Hundreds of employees have been walking in and out all morning, so there are hundreds of oily finger prints on the door. Soon, Webster’s prints will be lost along the masses.

 

On the inside, there is a desk to his left with a pretty woman behind, chatting on the phone. She smiles at him and points to a waiting chair with a perfectly painted fingernail. To his right is a staircase leading up to the offices, where Nixon will surely be working. Or more likely drinking. And in front of him is yet another glass wall behind which he can see the men working like little ants, scurrying back and forth between machine parts. A meaning less job for a meaningless life. However, before he can sink even further into his endless pit of misery, he spots Randleman leaning on the glass wall, eyes fixed on him. Hum, so maybe he isn’t doomed to a meaningless life after all. He walks over to the blond man, who just nods his greetings.

 

“Nixon said you should assist me today.”

“Ok.”

Then without further warning, Randleman pushes open the door into the back room, and with Webster following half a step behind him, they weave through the ant hive to one of the open doors at the back. There in front of them lies an open bed truck and mountain of crates. Webster looks around in search of something they could use to move the crates easier but Randleman has already started, claiming:

“No time like the present.”

Webster tries not to scowl as they slowly move, box by box, the heavy crates onto the back of the truck. So maybe meaningless work is all that lies in his future. He wishes fate could just make up its mind.

They continue working for over an hour, moving back and forth, picking up a box, heading up the ramp, moving out of the way for the other person, before picking up another box, heading back up the ramp, and stepping aside of the other man and again. And again. Until their backs are wet, their over shirts discarded and all the blood has flooded to their faces.

  Halfway through the pile, whilst Webster is wiping off the sweat that is starting to drip down the back of his neck, a flashy red convertible sports car screeches to a halt in front of their loading bay. Giving it the once over, Webster dismisses it as a pile of crap, made for B-rated actresses who have something to prove. But Randleman deposits his crate and heads over, clapping an emerging Martin, his hair dishevelled from the wind.

“Thought you might like her, stole her on Bay Street over in Fox land.”

Webster waits a few minutes, catching his breath and watching as they both circle around the car, whistling and hitting the tires with their boots, throwing fancy names into the air over the engine parts. Webster could easily spot where they went wrong, it was clearly not a V8, but he shut his mouth and simply waited for the Capo to stop talking to his Soldier. But when they grow tired of car talk, they start whispering to each other, and Webster only catches words: Dike…Underboss…. Knew Winters in the army…. Foxhole Norman…. Sobel version 2.

Frowning openly, he turns his back of the obviously private conversation, and continues loading the boxes by himself. Somehow the trips seem shorter now that he’s merely picking up the crate and setting it down, instead of having to step aside every time. Occasionally he looks over to see the two men watching him with expressionless faces as they exchange news. Thankfully a gentle breeze picks up and dries the sweat on Webster’s back. He decides that once he’s done, he’s going to head over to the bay and jump in fully clothed. When he’s on the last dozen, he looks again to see the two men have stopped talking and are now sipping cups of coffee as they watch him finish. Cursing under his breath, which is fast becoming his new past time, he lifts the last few crates into the truck, wipes his brow and picks up his over shirt.

Heading over to the men, he hopes they ignore the sweat framing his eyes and the fact he can’t seem to catch his breath.

“Does this truck have a place to be?”

“I’ll take care of that kid.”

 

Webster just rolls his eyes, too tired to voice the sarcastic retort circling around his head. Instead, he holds out his hand, waiting. For what, he’s not exactly sure. A handshake and job well done, or the keys so he can just deliver the goods and be on his way, or just a few dollars so he can drive home.

Randleman eyes it wearily before reaching past Martin into the sports car. For a second, Webster’s heart beats faster, thinking for some stupid reason that Randleman is going to hand him the keys to the sports car. Not that Webster would keep that pile of trash, but he’d sell it on and make a pretty penny. But instead, Randleman pulls out a pile of cash from inside the dashboard, splits it without even looking and hands over a wedge of dollars. The smaller wedge.  

Webster tries to slow his hand so it doesn’t look like he’s snatching them, but he still pulls them right out of Randleman’s hand with a little tug. He nods his thanks and turns to leave, debating whether to even turn up tomorrow, wondering if he’s better of earning little to no money living easily on the corners with his gang who respected him, or breaking his back every day but gaining a steady income from people who treated him like vermin, when Martin calls him.

“Hey Webster.”

David turns to look at the expressionless soldier but doesn’t bother returning to their side. 

“See you at the Lucky Star tonight.”

It’s an invite. A thank you. An outstretched hand. A pat on the arm. A job well done. A smile and a few kind words. It’s what he’s been waiting for.  It’s an invite into their circle of friends.  His first step into the Family.

 

 

-

 

 

“Ah Darling, you have returned!”

Webster enters the pub later on, once the sky has started to darken and his clothes have dried from his earlier swim. He orders a cheap beer, having spent almost all of his money filling his bike up with fuel.

“And I see you never left.”

As soon as the words have left his mouth, he can see his mistake. Liebgott’s face is still an angry purple from where he hit him, but the cut looks clean and stitched together. The Soldier sees him studying his face and explains:

“Eugene Roe. Family Doc. Can patch up a man on his last breath, a few stiches is nothing for his magic hands.” Liebgott wiggles his eyebrows to make sure Webster catches his innuendo. He decides to simply leer at the man.

“Glad to see you’re not moping endlessly.”

“Ah you win some you lose some. Come sit down Cupcake.”

Liebgott ticks the chair opposite him out into the room, right into the passage Webster is trying to take to a table further into the room, and glares at Webster until he sits down, sipping his beer. There is something about the way Liebgott is watching him that makes him shiver. And not in pleasure, but a certain wary certitude that if Webster doesn’t comply with Liebgott’s orders, he’ll be leaving with more bruises than Liebgott will be.

As soon as he settles, the bar’s noise level falls to minimum; nobody in the bar looks nor talks to him for the next hour, each entering a quiet conversation with their neighbour. Webster sits there nursing his beer, making it last as long as he can because he doesn’t have the money to buy another one, wondering how long he has to stay before he can politely take his leave. Liebgott is the only one that flashes glares his way every ten minutes daring him not to make a move to leave anytime soon.

 

Finally he has enough of the hushed whispers and pointed glares and rises despite Liebgott’s hard look. Picking up his glass and placing it on the wooden bar, he turns to leave through the doors, fed up of this stuck up untrustworthy crowd. If he wanted people sizing him up and plotting behind his back, he’d have gone into politics. He’d thought that a Family would be just that, a family.

 

 Just as he reaches the doors, they are pushed open from the other side by Martin and Randleman. Even he can’t ignore the silence that has fallen upon bar as he moves to the side to let them past, but he’s trying his best to, staring at his shoes. Randleman smiles at him, actually smiles, the first real smile he’s had directed at him all day, and Webster feels Bull turn him back around to face the room with a huge hand resting on his shoulder. Addressing the room at large, he doesn’t even need to raise his voice when he announces:

“Webster passed.”

Smiles break out through the room and chatter resumes. Webster stands there, utterly confused, as Martin slips another beer into his hand and together they guide him back to his spot that he had abandoned not a few minutes before. 

“I’m surprised you lasted an hour Web. I should give you more credit.”

David glares at Liebgott and has difficulty biting back his tongue as he spits out:

“Don’t call me Web.”

“If you wish Darling.”

The only reason he doesn’t hit Liebgott again, and he really wants to, hands fisted beneath the table, pressed into his thigh, is because he realizes he owes Liebgott. If the Jew hadn’t kept glaring at him every time he moved, he’d have left almost immediately. Sighing, he accepts he’ll probably have to keep the Darling nickname, and even Web too, if he doesn’t want to start a fight again. And he honestly thinks they won’t appreciate another fight. Joe seems to laugh at his expression, obviously realizing he has the high ground here and smiles at him. David wants to point out how much he looks like a shark when he smiles like that, but instead, he merely lifts his drink in a toast.

 

Around him, everyone is punching him on the arm and shaking his hand, telling him too many names at once that he has no chance of remembering. There’s a Heffron in there, with a dark haired Cajun by his side. He recognizes the Capos, Lipton, Buck and Welsh with his gap toothed grin. A loud man, Will Bob or something, bursts into song with his olive skinned friend. Luz joins in and soon the whole bar is singing something that Webster recognizes as an old love song.

 

Once everyone has finished the chorus, the bar settles back into place, cards appearing out of thin air, beers being tossed through around and laughter filling every corner as they all sit down at their usual tables. Trying to come to terms with the sudden noise level after sitting in near silence for nearly an hour, Webster turns to the man next to him and raises an eyebrow.

“I passed?”

“Shifty. I can see you have already forgotten. Don’t worry, we all did, you’ll get used to everyone soon. Anyway he means you passed the test.”

“What test?” he addresses the table out large, which seats Shifty, Liebgott, Perconte and himself, whilst Luz is half tuned into the conversation from the next table over where he’s playing cards with Martin and Randleman.

“You worked at Nixon’s today right? And you had to do some boring old lifting work, am I right?”

Webster nods at Shifty. So it appears the whole day has been a test.

“Well, about half way through, Martin always turns up in some ridiculous car. That part’s not scripted, but Martin only drives stupid cars.”

Powers ducks as a coaster goes flying towards his head.

“Then, Randleman goes over to gossip like old woman, and then it’s all down to you. The next part is entirely up to you. So what did you do?” Everyone pauses to listen.

“I continued working anyway.” He replies, ignoring Liebgott’s groan and eye roll as he falls back onto his back on the dining couch, disappearing completely under the table, apart from his knees.

“You had so much potential, why did you ruin it?” he catches Liebgott whispering under his breath as he rolls side to side like a child refused a sweet.

“But I passed!” He retorts at the dramatic groans coming from Liebgott, but he sounds more confused than he’d intended, the statement turning into a question.

 

“Now you’re boring! Ordinary Webster! You’re going to go onto do dull rounds with Lipton, collecting money, instead of punching up douchebags with Bill. You’re going to miss out!”

“Just because you got into a fight with Randleman, doesn’t mean it’s the correct way to do it Joe!”

Perconte seems to apologize to Webster over his friend’s shoulder as Liebgott finally stops the moaning and restarts his drinking.

“If you complete the job calmly, like you did, you get a somewhat safer job, talking to people instead of punching them. If you yell at Randleman, or in Liebgott’s case, you hit him, you get to punch people and basically become cannon fodder for the family. No, Joe, I’m not insulting you, you’re no longer cannon fodder, and you survived long enough to get promoted! But you were.”

Webster smiles at Joe’s obvious smirk, one corner of his lips twisted upwards. He instantly likes it more than the shark grin he pulls when he's mocking Webster. It suits him, he thinks to himself.

“And if you leave the building without completely the job, yooouuu’rrrrre out!” Luz calls from over his shoulder as he collects his prize money. In the two times he’s been here, Webster has already accepted the fact he must never play poker with Luz, who seems capable of stealing money from anyone, almost every turn. 

“Hey, don’t get cocky George; remember how you managed to get in?”

“Honestly I don’t, I think I may have been drunk at the time, why don’t you rejog my memory Randleman?”

Everyone around the table bursts out laughing, and Webster once again feels lost, but before the awkwardness sets in, Liebgott leans forwards, arm resting on the table next to his drink and his head dipped to speak into his ear, overall entering Webster’s personal space.

“Luz literally charmed Randleman. I’ve never seen such a lovesick puppy before in my life. When Martin turned up to start the test, he found Luz sitting on the bed of the truck, telling jokes to the whole factory whilst Randleman loaded the truck all by himself.”

Letting out a shallow laugh, Webster tries desperately not to react to Liebgott’s lips being so close to his ears, blowing warm air into them. He’s just met the guy, now is not a good time to start…reacting to his closeness. Liebgott’s eyes find his and for a moment, they are sitting way too close for it to be normal, in the middle of the cheery bar. Webster finds himself tracing the dark rim around Liebgott’s irises, wondering how dark his eyes will be when he is turned on.  Both are wearing matching frowns as they stare back at each other and the tension changes from sexual, to angry, and back to sexual again. Webster feels his lips part without his accord and Liebgott glances down at them, his tongue unconsciously licking his lips. Webster finds himself gulping audibly.

Then at the same time, they come back to reality and bounce away from each other, both of them picking up their drinks and looking anywhere but at each other. It’s only when Liebgott shifts his leg away that Webster realizes their thighs had been pushing together. Webster notices Shifty concentrating on his drink, but the man smiles kindly when he looks up. Perconte had rolled his eyes and turned around to join the card game.

 

Finally, after Joe moves away to join Perconte, and Webster’s head clears a bit, wondering how such an annoying and dislikable man can affect him in mere seconds, Heffron and the Cajun come to sit down with Shifty and him. And he finally starts to relax for the evening.

 

 And when he drives away that night, over the bridge swerving through traffic until he reaches his old neighbourhood with gangs on every corner who salute him, he realizes that that evening, he had felt like he had belonged. To a Family.


	4. Chapter 4

“Ok, listen up Web, the plan is simple. We go in and demand that he hands over our monthly fee. If he refuses, we call in Liebgott here.”

Webster looks in the rear view mirror of Lipton’s old Cadillac series 61 with its beige and burgundy seats to see Liebgott grinning from where he is sprawling on the back seat, feet hanging out one of the window as he hums a song from the latest picture. 

 

 

After returning home last night, he’d been called back to Currahee by Lipton’s phone call this morning who asked if he wanted to continue his rise through the ranks, to which he had heartedly agreed. He’d jumped on his bike and driven over whilst the sun was still rising across the bay, making spots of light dance around his visor.  He’d been pulling up in front of Nixon’s Nitration Work when it finally dawned on him that he had never given the Family his number, and Nixon must have gone to the effort of tracking him down. He tried to push down the pride that started to swell up in his chest. It turned out that he didn’t even need to go into the building, as he spotted Nixon walking across the car parking spot, away from his house into the office. Jogging to catch up, the man in a rumpled suit and bed ruffled hair had looked at him, a little lost. Webster blamed in on the obvious hangover.

 

“What are you going here kid? Lipton’s expecting you at his house.”

 

He motioned over his shoulder to one of the identical family houses that homed all of Easy’s Capos. The biggest belonged to the Underboss, currently Dike. Then there was Guarnere’s, Compton’s and Lipton’s on the same first row, with Randleman’s hidden behind Dike’s and Welsh behind Lipton’s.  Behind Compton’s, he could spy the frame of an eighth was being built. Someone was getting promoted soon. Last night, Luz had already started the betting and Webster had thrown in twenty in favour of Martin, who seemed to be the favourite along with Toye.

Webster had saluted his thanks, the traditional way of honouring a superior’s comment, before asking why Nixon was up so early, knowing from his spying that Nixon never rose before ten.

 

“Trying to escape the wife. Usually the only safe place is the office or Winters. Doesn’t like the smell. Of the office, of course. Not Winters. ” He’d thrown a cheeky chin and stumbled off in the direction of the glass doors, leaving Webster to turn around, leaving his bike there, and to cross the road to stand in front of Lipton’s house. Once there, he’d glanced around and wondered what he was meant to do, if he should ring the doorbell or just light up a fag to wait. As he stood there running his hands together to protect himself from the morning chill, a small blond woman with a heart shaped face had appeared next to him, carrying a load full of washing in a woven basket under one arm and a bag of French stick in the other. He stepped aside whilst at the same time unburdening her of the washing. With his face hidden behind the pile of folded clothes, he heard her gentle voice reach his ears.

 

“Mary Stone. Lipton’s girlfriend. A pleasure to meet you, I suppose you’re the enforcer that Lipton’s meant to meet with?”

She didn’t even wait for an answer, wandering up the path and prompting Webster to follow with a wave of her free hand.

 

“Well don’t be shy, come on in and have a coffee, he’s probably in the shower. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, we’d have to send you off to Roe’s.”

She smiled as she looked at the medic clinic through the window, over the road from her house.  As Webster settled down and graciously ate a few of the offered biscuits to fill him up, he found himself relaxing as he glanced around the house.

 

He was currently sitting at the back of the house, in the rather large kitchen at what appeared to be the couple’s casual table, but through the arch way on his left, he could spot a formal dining room, a long oak table currently bare of all cutleries but filled with well watered plants and an old grandfather clock. Though the archway on his right, he could see what he presumed to be the sitting room, but all he could see was a mantelpiece covered in what looked like photos of the Family.  He glanced up and smiled as a casually dressed Lipton walked into the room yawning before he headed straight to the coffee machine. When he turned around to spot Webster, he barely flickered an eyebrow and Webster found himself wondering how often Lipton got up in the morning to find one of the family men sitting at his table, chatting to his wife. No girlfriend, she had definitely said girlfriend, but the same they interacted and everything Webster knew about Lipton, seemed to indicate they should be married by now.

Either way, he tuned out of their morning conversation as Lipton sat down with the paper, and started counting how many red things he could find.

In the world of Mafia, every family has a colour. A certain shade that can always be linked back to the Family: be it on cars, shops or people. Easy’s colour was a deep red, almost burgundy that could be spotted on Lipton’s car, the cushion covers and the shirt that Lipton was wearing underneath showing suspenders and plain slacks. It was useful, as it meant other family knew which shops were protected, which cars not to steal and who to shoot at in a gun fight. But only Soldiers or higher actually wore the shade on them, though many aspiring and pushy enforcers liked to keep a shaded handkerchief in their suits pocket. Webster was proud to admit he merely had a simple white one on him.

 

“Don’t worry Webster, we’ll be off in a moment, just waiting for Liebgott to show up.”

Then, speaking of the devil, Liebgott burst through the door, wearing a blood red shirt pushed up past his bony elbows, and a wicked smile on his face that matched his current hair style as he waltzed over to Mary and kissed her cheek, stopping when he spotted Webster leaning back in one of the chairs. But the man made no other gesture or reaction to his presence apart from raising his eyebrow to match Webster’s and sitting down on the opposite side of the table, resting his feet on another chair.

 

Webster had expected sharp comments, a spark of fight in the rat faced man’s eyes, something that meant he could still recall what had happened last night. But to Webster’s impatience, the man was completely at ease, undisturbed by Webster’s presence. Maybe he’d forgotten, maybe he had never even read into last night like Webster had, maybe Webster was over thinking again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As Liebgott threw him a smirk and a “Hello dear”, he decided that Liebgott simply thought he was superior to him, and the rest of the planet, as Mary pushed his feet of their resting place on the chair, and he simply placed them back again.

 

“So what are today’s babysitting duties Mama Lip?”

The older man scowled and threw a glare with Liebgott’s way, but folded up his newspaper, neatly checking the corners.

 

“We’re going to go get our monthly fees from across town. It is simple work, but I thought you might like to come along in case we have the opportunity to throw some punches.”

“As you command Captain.”

 

Liebgott jumped to his feet and was out the door before Webster even realized they were leaving. He slowly stood up, thanked Mary for the biscuits, and wondered down the garden path to meet up with Liebgott, who was leaning against the dark red car. Lipton followed behind, tapping his newspaper against his thigh. Webster drew up next to Liebgott and Liebgott flashed him yet another smile. But it wasn’t a friendly smile, none of them had been. It was like the smile was merely his way of disguising his disgust as he threw himself across both of the back seats, leaving Webster to call shotgun.

 

 

And now they are cruising along down the roads as Lipton drives, Liebgott hums and Webster finds himself closing his eyes to the melody. He enjoys the sun of his face as he wonders whether he can get away with resting his feet of the dashboard. He had been scared of the cops stopping them because of Liebgott’s feet dangling out of the rear window; but all the cops they had passed had taken one look at the car, and its colour, before throwing them a casual salute. It felt like being royalty and Webster was slowly being aware of how addictive power could be.

When Liebgott finishes his song, Lipton sighs in relief and slowly starts to update Webster on the different jobs of a family member. Webster doesn’t bother to tell him that he already knows the basics.

 

“The Don is the boss. All plans are made by him, or approved by him, he’s like the president but he refuses to be a fool, dancing on a string held by all those big shots. Winters is our Don, and by god, never cross him. I have yet to see him truly angry but I think it would terrify all of us. And everyone respects Winters, don’t go around criticizing him or any of his decisions, even if he’s decided to kick you out.  The next most important person, in our family at least, is the consiligere: a close friend and someone the Don can always trust. In this case, it’s Nixon, who appeared out of nowhere a few months ago, none of us even knew Dick had such a close friend.  A consiligere handles the legal side of the Family; we usually have a company we ‘hide’ behind. Currently it’s Nixon Nitration Works.  He’s also our lawyer in case any high ranking members get into trouble with the law.”

Liebgott bores quickly of their conversation, and turns in on himself and appears to fall asleep. Lipton glances at him fondly, like a father would a child and Webster suddenly realizes why the boys call him Mama Lip.

 

“The Underboss is the man who takes over if the Don dies or is unable to carry out his duties. His role is mostly training with the Don, finding himself a consiligere, and leading important attacks. Currently Norman Dike Jr is our Underboss, he got the job the day you became enforcer. In some families the Underboss is more important than the consiligere.”

Liebgott splutters and makes an unconvincing fake cough attack in the back seat, proving he’d still been paying attention.

 

“Shut up Joe, you know we shouldn’t be discussing him. Not in front of… outsiders.” Lipton glances at Webster quickly, his cheeks colouring. Liebgott sits up and leans forward under he’s resting on the back of Webster’s seat, arm draped around Webster, his hand resting near to Webster’s neck. He tries not to gulp as Liebgott whispers into his ear, explaining:

“Dike’s going to be the death of us, just like Sobel nearly was. But we can’t take him out, not so soon after Sobel, so we’re stuck with him. Do you know what they called him in the army Web? Foxhole Norman. The only reason he’s got the job is because he’s an old pal of Winters from in there. Hell, even Winters doesn’t like him. But there was no one else.”

Joe leans back and Webster finally remembers to breath, clearing away all of the black spots that had be forming over his eyes. The smell of cheap tobacco, booze and a man’s aftershave fill his sinuses.

 

“It should have been Compton. Or even Welsh.”

“But it wasn’t.” Is all Lipton replies as he ignores their interruption and continues on.

 

“Then you have the Capos. The Family greatest soldiers, the one the Don relies on to make sure his plans become a reality. We’re here to lead the Soldiers, frighten the enemy and generally live a good life.” Lipton grins to himself as he rounds a corner. “There are…five of us I think.”

In the back, Joe rattles them off whilst counting on his fingers.

 

“Welsh, Lipton, Compton, Randleman, Guarnere.”

“And soon to be one more.” Webster adds, remembering the new building.

“Yeah Lip, about that. Don’t you suppose you want to tell me who the house if for? I’d make a fortune down at Luz’s betting station.”

“My lips are sealed Joe.” Lipton mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the keys and Liebgott mimes catching them.

“Arsehole.”

 

Webster’s eyebrows raise, but Lipton doesn’t even flinch. So name calling is to be expected when talking to Liebgott. A handy piece of information. It means that when Liebgott is insulting him, he shouldn’t take it to heart, he does it to everybody.  Even people he’s obviously cares for, like Lipton.

“And Capo’s usually lead a group of ten Soldiers, into battle, to take down warehouses or to occasionally murder a made man. A Made Man is a Capo, Soldier, Underboss or even the Don. The rest of the time, Soldiers chill around, living the good life whilst doing no work.”

“The American dream.” Webster utters under his breath and Liebgott barks out a laugh.

“And then you have enforcers like you Web, who work their arses off trying to impress us so they can then do nothing themselves.”

 

Liebgott pats a hand down on Webster’s shoulder and Webster ignores his words and stares out of the window, watching how everyone recognizes the car and steps out of their way. Lipton doesn’t try to correct Liebgott, knowing that in the end, the Jew is speaking the truth, and continues to explain the advantages of taking down a warehouse (increased income, respect etc) and the disadvantages (gun fights, the other families getting annoyed, having to buy that warehouse protection).  Webster tries to brush aside the fact he could very well become just another security guard at one of these warehouses, or hubs as Liebgott calls them, and hopes he can prove that he is above all that.

 

 **“** There are two types of fighting positions. The first is a prepared position. The advantages are cover and concealment…”

Lipton doesn’t bother finishing his sentence as they pull over in a busy street of the other side of New York. Down the street, he can see a mix of different colors on all the signs, ranging from Easy’s Red to Able’s Blue to Fox’s Green. Turning the engine off, Lipton points to a red bannered chocolate shop across the street.

“We’ll start with the hardest. The guy’s name is Dwayne something, and he hates paying his rent. We’re going to go in there and see if he plans on handing over the money, you know, nice cop. Now if he doesn’t pay up, you’ll call in bad cop here by motioning to him through the window and Liebgott will smash up some of his stuff until he pays.”

Webster looks at Lipton horrified, but the guy just shrugs.

“The smart ones pay up easily. They bring it on themselves.”

 

“A warning Web: Don’t get involved.” Liebgott’s voice is low and cold. Webster looks over his shoulder to see Liebgott is now sitting upright, and gripping his arm in a painful way whilst he stares at him through narrowed eyes. Webster just rolls his eyes and pulls his arm out of Liebgott’s reach.

“Ok, we’re going in. Wish us luck.” Lipton calls from outside of the driver seat, either oblivious to Webster and Liebgott’s interaction or purposely ignoring it.

“Luck.” Calls Liebgott as Webster shuts the door on him.

 

Turning around, he straightens his suit jacket, a simple cheap black suit that contrasts dramatically with Lipton’s and Liebgott’s red shirts and then the two over them calmly cross the seat and push into the shop, shutting out all the noise from outside as soon as they enter. Webster’s head spins immediately at the thick chocolate smell and his nostrils flare. A large portly fellow in a dirty white apron is serving a blonde haired lady when he catches sight of them, Webster leaning against the door way, cleaning his nails, and Lipton pretending to inspect the shelves. As soon as the doorbell rings as the lady exits the shop, Lipton turns on the man, who is currently wiping away a trail of sweat that has formed on his forehead.

 

“You know what time of the month it is Dwayne, just hand over our share. Don’t make this difficult.”

Lipton speaks in a calm disinterested way that nearly fools Webster into thinking that Lipton truly doesn’t care whether they get the money or not, that Martin is merely a piece of dirt under their nails.

 

“You don’t deserve a penny, you band of cockloving bastards.”

Lipton scratches his head, puts a bit more power into his voice and draws closer to the till.

 

“I think you’d better pay up Martin. Remember what happened last time you didn’t?”

The man replies by spiting on Lipton who steps back a few steps as he withdraws his handkerchief to wash the spit off.  Webster rolls forward on his feet, intending to hit the man for his actions but Lipton waves a hand at him.

 

“I had to spend half of my savings replenishing my stock after you animals ripped it up.”

“And I think you’re a very lucky man that I came to collect your money and not someone else, say Guarnere. What do you think he would have done if you’d spitted on him? Or, as the question may be now, what will he do when he learns that you spat on me?”

The man just leers and folds his arms over his chest.

 

“It’s a good thing you’re such a big softie and you won’t tell him then.”

Lipton mirrors the man, crossing his arms and leaning back on one leg. Sighing into the silence, he quickly turns to shoot a look at Webster, unnoticed by the shop keeper. Webster turns around and makes a small motion to Liebgott, who’d been waiting leaning against the car. Before he turns back to face the room, he notices Liebgott’s huge smile and dread fills his stomach.

 

“Then it’s a good thing that I brought along back up.”

The shopkeeper’s eyes shoot to him and Webster knows he’s being judged. The man obviously decides David isn’t a threat and is laughing when Liebgott bursts into the shop, kicking open the door. Webster tries to roll his eyes, but he finds himself smiling at the childish gesture. Dwayne catches sight of Liebgott and turns a pale sheet of white and looks…petrified. Liebgott throws Dwayne a grin, and Webster recognizes it as the grin that Liebgott throws him, an “I’m better than you, and I can make your life hell: I know that I have this power over you and I won’t hesitate to abuse it” grin.

As Liebgott walks around the shop whistling, picking up a bag of chocolates and helping himself, throwing them into the air and leaning back with his mouth wide open to catch them, Webster impulsively starts talking before either of the two Easy members can stop him.

 

“You’re a fool you know.” He steps across the room and past Liebgott who looks ready to murder him. Lipton’s expression is merely curious as he takes Webster’s former spot by the door.

“But you view yourself as a businessman. So let’s review the facts here: you don’t want to give up the money because you lose the money right?”

He can hear Liebgott grinding his teeth but he doesn’t spare the guy so much as a glance as he leans on the counter to stare at the nodding shopkeeper.

“But if you don’t give up the money, my friend Liebgott here is going to smash the place up.”

He twists his lip to see Liebgott has fallen silent and is merely looking threatening. Webster nearly sighs in relief that he’s playing along even though Liebgott’s cheek is twitching.

“Which you then have to pay to replace. On top of our demanded fee. So won’t it make more sense, Dwayne, if you simply hand over the money, every time, instead of having to pay twice the cost?”

 

The shopkeeper eyes him in silence for a while, until Liebgott starts whistling again, a dark, oppressing tune that steadily gets faster like he’s counting down. Then the shopkeeper simply turns on his heel and walks out of the back door. Webster’s eyes widen in surprise and he hears Liebgott huff behind him and waits for the onslaught.

“Well done Webster, now you’ve lost us all our rent!” Liebgott shoves his shoulder as he tries to barge past, a hand on his gun, intending to follow the disappearing shopkeeper, but Dwayne renters the room a few seconds later and holds out a stack of money. And he isn’t handing it to Liebgott, but to Webster. Smirking as he brushes back Liebgott, he takes the money and nods his head. “Thank you.”

 

He turns and hands it to Lipton, who smiles at him with what looks like a trace of pride in his eyes.

“What is your name?”

Webster strides back to the man and holds out his hand, immediately regretting it when the man greasy hand clings to his. Refusing to give into the urge to wipe his man on his suit, he replies:

“Webster. David Webster.”

“A new enforcer no doubt.” The man eyes him, pulling at his beard. “Here, my thanks to you, for saving me money.”

He reaches into his till and pulls out a ten dollar note. Webster looks at it, and then pushes it back towards him.

“I won’t take your money.” The man opens his mouth to insist and Webster reaches for the nearest thing to his hand, which just so happens to be a basket full of biscuits, costing around the ten dollar mark. “But I will take these.”

The man just nods his head, a smile on his face.

“I like you Webster. I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you, as the family’s new wise guy, around the neighborhood. A good word can go a long way.”

Webster gives him a weak salute and together all three of them leave the shop, going to lean against the car, as Webster deposits the basket in the front seat.

 

“You can give those to Mary, Lipton, I hate cinnamon.”

He turns around to find Liebgott scowling at him still whilst Lipton laughs.

“Oh you’re good Webster. You’ve just made a name for yourself as a serious businessman in there. And my girlfriend will love you.”

Patting Webster’s shoulder, he heads off down the street. Webster turns to Liebgott who sneers at him.

“I ain’t your friend Webster.” He pushes himself off the car and Webster turns to follow, ignoring the shudder his heart just gave. He remains silent as they step in and out of several more stores all with a red banner, collecting money as they go, both Lipton and Liebgott cheering up and getting rowdier with the money whilst Webster just says less and less.

“You’ll be able to do this by yourself soon Web. A few more times with one of the known family guys and they’ll start to remember you. And that’s a good sign Webster.” Lipton seems to have relaxed completely and he hands over a stack of money to both Liebgott and Webster, though Liebgott’s is naturally a bit bigger, whilst causes Liebgott to turn that predator grin on him again.  

 

As they stand there, counting the money or in Liebgott’s case, helping himself to some of Webster’s biscuits, a huge crash rings out on the street. They all throw themselves to the ground, along with everyone else on the street when a window smashes a few shops up. Webster’s hand moves automatically to his gun and he’s pleased to see that Liebgott and Lipton had the same reflex, all three of them pressing up against Lipton’s car with their guns drawn. Crouching, they peer over the bonnet of the car, waiting to see who will emerge from the darkness of the shop. After a few minutes, a tall man with a confident stride and a black fedora jumps down onto the pavement and ignoring all the stares, continues up the street.

“Speirs.” Joe exhales as he stands up, putting his gun away.

“Speirs?” Webster questions as he follows Liebgott’s lead. He is already lost with all the Family members, how is he supposed to know anyone else?

“Ronald Speirs, Soldier in Fox Family.” Liebgott points to the green sign above the smashed shop. “They probably didn’t want to pay. The fools. Spiers is one hell of a scary guy and he’s on the fast track to becoming a Capo. So if you see him down an empty alley, walk the other way.”

Webster nods as he tries to retain this information, slipping into the car. But to his surprise, Lipton is still staring after Speirs’s retreating form, the gun still unsheathed.

 

\--

 

He hadn’t intend to head into the Lucky Star yet again that night, for the third night in a row, but he’d accidentally taken Lipton’s newspaper earlier and figured he would check in to see if the man was there with the others, before heading back across town.  It is already dark and Webster hates driving on his bike in the night time, accidents happen all too easily. If these jobs become a more permanent thing, and Lipton had hinted towards that earlier, he is going to have to either move or buy a car.

Pushing open the door, the smell of stale beer and men’s sweat washes over Webster and to his surprise he finds the smell like a friendly ‘welcome home’.

He heads in and the heavy featured bartender from last night asks if he wants the usual, _he already has a usual?_ , but he kindly refuses; he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. The man nods like he understands; he probably does, there must have been countless enforcers before him and there must have been some who had over stayed their welcome.

Weaving around the tables, he hears Lipton’s quite yet strong voice amongst all the others and heads in that general direction, towards the back of the bar. He finds himself before two tables that have been pushed together and currently seat a good part of Easy’s men. At the center of everyone’s attention are Liebgott and Lipton, Liebgott still glaring at him like he has been all day and Lipton’s cheeks are colored like he’s guilty of something. So, they were talking about him. That’s hopefully good news, people would remember him. He nods hello to everyone, politely ignoring Liebgott’s radio silence apart from raising an eyebrow, telling him off for still being upset.

 

_You ain’t my friend Webster._

_  
_

“You left this. Here.” He hands over the newspaper to a pleased Lipton as everyone mocks him for being such an old man, a hurricane around the eye of the storm where Joe remains unmoving.

“Here, Webster, have a seat. Join us.”

He looks at the seat that Lipton had just pulled over for him and considers his options. It’s rude to stay and it’s rude to leave.

“I really can’t. I have to…”

“Make sure you don’t over stay your welcome? Yeah, we know. Though you are the first one to refuse in a long time.” Toye crushes his cigarette in the ash tray before looking from Webster to Guarnere. Webster chews the inside of his lip, and seeing there are no more questions, gives an awkward wave to the table as he turns to leave the silent table.

“Webster, be back here for tomorrow. We’re going hunting.” He hears Guarnere call out to him as he walks away. He doesn’t bother to turn around, just gives a lazy salute so they know that he heard them. By the time he’s reached the door, they are back to talking normally. But most importantly, he’ll be back, he’s gotten himself a shoe-in. 


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning Webster knows better- you can’t fault him for not being a fast learner- and pulls up directly in front of Bill’s house. The small cream building has the same lay out as Lipton’s, as all the Capo's houses, including the neat garden with a garage, tidy flowerbeds that he just can’t see Bill tending to and a two door sports car in an arrogant red: a Nash Lafayette convertible.  

Webster stands outside smoking for a few minutes, watching the Family's compund waking up. Fairly quickly, people start going around doing their daily routine: Dick going for a run, followed by some button men to watch his back, Nixon, half asleep, heading into the office and Perconte, Muck and Malarkey heading over to the bay for a swim. Compton turns up, dressed in a leather sport's jacket and a red scarf before Webster has finished his smoke, but he crushes it under his heel anyway, following Compton into Bill's house.

Buck has a catching smile and Webster relaxes slightly, before outwardly grinning when they

find Bill still sleeping his hangover off. The dark head is lying flat out on his stomach, half hanging out of his bed as his snores echo around the house. His bed sheet is untucked, his duffet drapping artistically around his waist like a roman statue and, ruining the whole debauched look, there is a small wet patch of drool on his pillow.

Buck barely blinks at the state of the bedroom and quickly moves on. He smiles wickedly at Webster before going to fetch something out of the bathroom, leaving Webster standing in Bill’s bedroom, watching him sleep. Trying not to feel self-conscious, Webster quickly turns around to pour himself a cup of coffee. He doesn't want Bill to wake to find him standing over the drunk man like a pervert. 

Webster sits around in the light kitchen, soaking in the morning rays as the kettle boils until Compton emergesfrom the wetroom with a jug of water. Throwing Webster a wink, he motions towards the bedroom and Webster, foolishly, follows him to the doorway.

Realizing a moment too late what Compton plans on doing, Webster watches with wide eyes as Buck throws the water over Bill whilst pushing both Webster and himself back out into the living room sniggering. Somehow Webster manages to trip over his own two feet and Compton ends up lying on top of him laughing his head off as shots are fired from in the bedroom. Bill must have been gripping a gun under his pillow and this thought sets Webster off, joining Compton in his unstoppable laughter. After a few curses and thumps, a wet haired Bill enters the room to find his ‘burglars’ lying around laughing at his withdrawn gun and soaked tee-shirt.

“Ay, you got old Guarnere this time.”

Bill holds out a hand to help Compton up, a mean smirk on his face as the two men grin at each other, both of them showing teeth. Webster is completely ignored by Bill and hauls himself to his feet on his own, sitting back down with his coffee. 

“Take a shower for god’s sake man, was I not subtle enough?”

Bill grumbles some more, but follows Compton’s orders, slamming the door to the bathroom. As the water starts falling, Toye enters the house, dancing up the steps, a driver’s cap pulled low over his head. Compton throws an arm around the man and proceeds to make all three of them coffee, navigating his way around Bill’s kitchen like he does this every day.

As Compton doesn't even bother to search for the cupboard in which the mugs are held, Webster realizes that whilst Liebgott and Lipton get along, they aren’t friends on the same level as these three are, constantly touching and winding each other up, generally living in each other's back pockets. He feels honoured to be allowed to join them for the day. Even though he feels like an insider intruding on their privacy, and maybe that’s exactly what he is, Buck is polite to him, adding two sugars to his coffee and Joe hands him the newspaper to read from where he’s grabbed it on his way in.

“Ah Joe Toye! I don’t whether to hug you, kiss you or punch you.”

Guarnere seems to have cheered up as he emerges into the room, wearing a grey suit with a red shirt underneath. He ruffles Toye’s hair as he leans over the man, locating his coffee. Sipping it, a spark returns to his eye as he spots Webster. The cheer drops off Bill's face and Webster stops laughing, suddendly frightened by the dangerous glint in Guarnere's glare.

“So boys, we’re taking cowboy here on a hunting trip.”

 

-

 

“When you said we were going hunting, I -foolishly- believed we would be hunting animals for some reason. I have no idea why that innocent assumption sprung to mind, I should know better with you lunatics.”

 

Webster flips his Molotov cocktail up and down a few more times in his hands as the guys around him laugh. He is standing in front of a wooden hut by a race track, in the country side surrounding New York. From their view point on the hill, they can see all of New York spread out in front of them, a maze of squares and rectangles. Webster tries not gush of the picturesque settings, instead he examines the racing cars parked up in a row. They are mostly Ford H boy’s, painted different colours with numbers stencilled on boldly on the sides.

 He’s lined up in a row with Guarnere, Compton and Toye. He tries not to freak out at the fact that he’s standing around helping two, and if Toye is the one getting promoted and Webster kind of hopes he isn’t just go he can win his forty dollars, three of Easy’s capos and they are all easily tossing jokes at each other, as they relax in his presence, even more relaxed that this morning. They just handle themselves with such ease around each other, no need for words as they all adapt naturally to whatever the other is doing. And they can just accept Webster into their circle as easily as if he has been there since the start.

Behind the soon to be burnt hut, a fast hum speeds by, and disappears just as fast. They’ve come to take out a menacing gang who called themselves the Killers. They were known for their shifty driving skills and impressive cars. But a few days ago, they terrorized one of the neighbourhoods that Easy protects, Eindhoven or something Dutch sounding.

Bill’s plan was to burn down their race track and Webster points out it’s impossible to burn a race track. Instead they decide to torch the wooden hut that keeps track of the racing time using a few Molotov cocktails that Bill had worryingly pulled out of his car.  Spinning the cocktail around in his hand again, Web looks over at the men, who seem to be pushing each other, seeing who will throw the first cocktail. Webster thinks it is a miracle they haven’t been spotted yet.

Bored of them egging each other on, he decides to just get on with the job and flicks open his lighter, ignites the cord popping out of the open bottle and in an overhead swing, flings it in through the window with a satisfying boom. Grinning and pleased with himself, the other three look at him in surprise.

“What did you do that for?”

“Well you three were just standing around flirting so I decided to move this party along.”

Webster doesn’t understand how he can be so cocky around three of the scariest men in the family, yet he doesn’t dare utter a single insult about Liebgott. Although he had hit Liebgott and he had no intention of hitting any of these guys.

“You fucking idiot, we were going to burn this god damn place down ourselves, what the hell gives you, a little college girl, the right to do our fucking jobs…”

“Shut your fucking guinea trap Guarnere.”

Buck’s mouth falls open in a perfect o as Web shuts Bill up, but, luckily, Bill turns to Toye and slaps him on the shoulder with the back of his hand, motioning to Webster with his strong jaw.

“He’s alright that kid.”

As the other two smile, trusting Bill’s judgement as Webster had hoped they would, the trail of smoke appears to have captured the attentions of the drivers, who are steering directly at them.

“Shit” Compton exclaims as he lobs his cocktail at the building then dashes towards his Oldsmobile S98 convertible, motioning to Webster to do the same. Ducking his head, Webster jumps into his shotgun seat as Toye and Guarnere lob their own fire bombs before climbing in Bill’s car behind them.

Tearing up the dirt track, leaving a cloud of duct behind them, Compton frantically motions to a gun hidden behind his seat as he twists the steering wheel back and forth. Webster reaches down, as bullets pierce through the car were his head had been just moments before, and pulls out the machine gun. Not doubting what Buck wants, he smashes the window with the butt of it, figuring Buck wouldn’t care much about the window seeing as the windscreen was peppered with bullet holes, before aiming at the cars racing up behind them. Gripping it tight, he pulls the trigger and tries to steady the recoil. Compton reaches the main road and makes a hand brake turn left, whilst Webster spots Guarnere fleeing right, Toye leaning out the window in a position identical to his.

 

Fleeing down the back streets, passers-by throw themselves behind cover, be it cars or dustbins, as their shoot out approaches the city.

“Shit Compton, what do I do?” Webster is scared shitless of hitting one of the civilians so he halts his manic firing.

“Fire at the tires, boy, fire at the tires.”

Centring his gun, he limits his ammunition, shooting only when he has clear sight off the pursing car’s tires. He manages to hit one car, but there are still three others, weaving in and out of the oncoming traffic.

“I have to admit, I take kindly to a man who asks for advice.” Compton flees down a side street and Webster bangs his head against the car door. “He’s more likely to survive the week.”

“I’ll count myself lucky if I survive the day.”

“Ah this is nothing boy. I do this every week.”

“I hope you’re not planning on living a long life in which you retire to the country to keep bees.”

Compton laughs before swearing as smoke pours out of the bonnet. Slamming on the brakes and turning off the engine, he slides the car across the entrance to an alleyway, blocking them inside, protected on three sides by brick ways and a car on the other. Pushing open his door, Compton tumbles out of the car, withdrawing his gun. Webster ducks down and climbs out Compton’s side, protected by the alley. Together they peek their heads over the top of the car, as the Killers pull to a stop in the street, aiming their guns on Compton and Webster behind their make shift shelter.

Webster takes cover behind the wall and the trunk as Compton does the same at the front of the car. Making sure to make his shots count as they have no additional ammo, one by one they pick off the Killers, puncturing their racing suits. Webster executes more head shots than he can count but he feels bullets graze too close to his ears for comfort. He looks down to see blood and bullet holes over his jacket and finds himself dreading having to replace it.

 

Chest heaving, he pops up again to find the road in front of them is covered in dead bodies and no more shots  are coming his way. Keeping his gun at the ready, he climbs over the trunk, and one by one, moves from body to body, checking the men are dead by giving their ribs a good kick. He lifts his head to find Buck has followed him onto the street and is currently circling around him, covering him whilst he works. Whenever someone groans, Webster pulls the trigger before his mind can catch up with him and make him feel guilty.

 

Eventually, he’s satisfied and they both sheathe their guns. Looking at his wreck of a car, Compton makes a low moan that sounds like a painful goodbye one would usher to a lover, before striding into the nearest shop, ignoring the trembling customers and frightened shopkeeper, and heads straight for the phone, dialling in Easy’s number.

 

“Hey Dick, it’s Buck….Trashed my car in a drive by with the Killers….. Yeah, Toye and Guarnere too…. I’ve got Webster with me…”

Compton’s clear ice blue eyes flick over him briefly, hesitating at the bullet holes in his jacket.

“Yeah he’s fine….Did a fine job, great shot….Can you deliver a car to 4th street?...Thanks Dick.”

Hanging up, Webster follows Buck onto the street. Compton leans against the wall outside the shop, staring at any one who dares cross gazes with them and withdraws a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Webster. Webster takes two, lighting them both with a flick of his lighter, before popping one in Buck’s mouth. The rational part of his mind wonders how he can be so at ease with a superior, but being in a near death situation does that to a guy. Compton eyes him as he smokes.

“What exactly did you do to piss Liebgott off?”

Webster’s eyebrows rise in surprise as he stares blankly at the blond, remembering to breathe out slowly so he doesn’t hack up a lung on cigarette smoke.

“He won’t shut up about you. If you did a crap job, I would understand, but you did a good job today Webster.”

Webster nods his thanks at the compliment, before thinking about how to form his reply without sounding disrespectful to Liebgott.

“He just hates me. Some people just don’t get on. Polar opposites and all of that. He doesn’t even speak to me.”

His gut turns as he replies. Because he wants Liebgott to like him, more than anything. Maybe then thoughts of the silver tongued Jew would leave his mind, if they could at least converse without it turning into a competition. He isn’t sure what their prize will be, but he knows he wants it enough to not give in.

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s the case here. And opposites are meant to attract, like Nixon and Winters. Either way he talks about you all the time. For the last week, that’s all we’ve heard from him. Webster this, Webster that. He fell silent the minute you walked in the bar last night, glared at you then started again the second you left.”

Webster puffs out a cheek full of smoke and closes his eyes as his head falls back against the wall. He misses Buck’s knowing smile.

“Don’t worry. He’ll grow on you.”

Like he needs more Liebgott in his life, he already has a hard time thinking of anything but him. It’s starting to feel like a sickness he can’t control, clawing at the back of his head. The only time thoughts of Liebgott leave him are in life and death situations like their shootout earlier, and even then, he’s sure that his dying thought will be wondering how Liebgott will react to the news.

“Either way, our ride is here, all aboard.”

Webster’s eyes open to see a bullet ridden Lafayette pull up in front of them, both Toye and Bill grinning at the sight of Buck’s totalled car from the front seats.

“Forgotten how to drive Buck? You should let Webster do that part next time.”

Webster holds back a grin at the _next time_ and collapses into the back seat, Compton leaning back against the seat beside him, fingering the bullet holes in his jacket as they drive back to Tocca, the family’s estate in Currahee.

 

-

 

Toasting to success, the four of them sit down at a booth in the Lucky Star. Webster’s ruined jacket hangs over the back off Buck’s chair as Webster watches the three of them exchange their stories of the afternoon's events. Apparently Joe Toye had managed to pierce the Killer’s tires before the Killers had pierced theirs, unlike Webster, and then they had looped back and finished them off in a drive by.

 

Now they are sharing beers that have steadily emptied over the hours. Toye’s arm is hanging around Webster’s shoulders as Webster exchanges a flow on insults back and forth with Bill, who is appears to be happy to have found someone who can put a bit of thought into his curses. Webster finds himself laughing more than he has in years, relaxing in the company of the men, truly enjoying himself. His heart is beating fast and strong, and his cheeks are aching from his near constant smile. But at the back of his mind, thoughts of Liebgott are still clawing away at his senses.

 

And then Liebgott appears in the bar; the clawing halts and bliss takes its place. Webster loses track of the conversation as the man walks over, Webster’s eyes tracing the sway of his hips. Chewing the corner of his lip, he feels Toye’s glance from him to Liebgott, and the arm around his shoulder tightens, almost…defensively. Bill’s last chuckle echoes over the table as he realizes Webster’s attention has swayed. All four of them watch Liebgott approach their table and Webster has to give credit to Joe for remaining as cool as he does whilst two of his superiors eye him wearily.

“Have a good day guys? I heard Luz chatting about it earlier. It’s a shame about that beauty of a car Buck. Did Webster drive your car into that wall? I told you not to let him drive.”

Everyone remains silent as Webster ducks his head and stares at the collection of alcohol behind the bar, wishing blood wasn’t pooling up in his cheeks. He starts quoting Shakespeare to calm his nerves, allowing the bliss that had appeared along with Liebgott’s presence to sweep over his mind. A faint movement catches his eye and he watches as Bill, sitting opposite him and the only other person in an arm’s reach of Liebgott, places his hand across Liebgott's chest and Webster sees him give a firm but gentle push back.

“Back off Joe.”

The two men exchange looks, neither of them angry, merely captured in a silent conversation. Then huffing out his cheeks, Liebgott stands up straight and walks away from the table, heading towards the bartender without addressing them another word.

Webster blinks and turns his eyes to Bill who just winks and picks up the conversation they were having about college. Toye’s arm relaxes, before he pats him on the back between his shoulder blades and withdraws. Compton ignores the whole exchange as he converses with Bill, adding in long words just to annoy the dark haired American who growls at him none threateningly. Webster slowly rolls out the tension that had reappeared in his muscles and starts backing Compton up, both of them college boys against Toye and Wild Bill’s dirty upbringing. He doesn’t look to see wherever Liebgott’s disappeared to, ignoring how strange it had been to see Joe back down from a fight without even a sharp remark. It had been more than strange… it had been wrong in Webster’s eyes. For some reason, he didn’t like seeing Liebgott being brought down a notch as much as he had wished. Joe’s superiority is, annoyingly, part of his stupid, brain clogging irresistible charm.

 

A few minutes later, the conversation stutters to a stop as Liebgott returns with a tray of beers and places them on the table, before dragging over a chair to sit down next to them. He hands everyone a beer, including Webster who tries desperately not to deliberately touch Liebgott’s slender fingers as he accepts the glass. Joe’s eyes look guilty as he avoids Webster’s questioning gaze. The guys around them resume their conversation, leaving the two in a small pocket of silence amongst the noisy crowd. He can feel Toye knock his knees against his in a form of support and knows they are merely respecting his privacy but are there for him if he needs them. For that, he is eternally grateful.

Liebgott runs a bony hand through his hair a few times, turning it into a mess that shouldn’t look so adorable to Webster and make him want to soothe it down, running his fingers through the shorter hairs at his neckline, before looking up to meet Webster’s gaze. The upturn of the corner of his mouth and begging eyes is all the apology Webster knows he will receive and he accepts it with open arms. He smiles gently, blinking slowly to show he understands. Liebgott’s back straightens and his smile turns back to its usual shit eating grin. And Webster can’t be more pleased to see it. Liebgott reaches for his own glass and holds it out, ready to toast Webster. As Webster gently clicks his glass against Liebgott’s, the Jew grunts:

“Well done Darling.”

Webster laughs gently, relieved that things will be easier from here on out and their gentle bickering soon chases away the clawing monster at the back of Webster’s mind.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going away to Rome and won't be able to update for a week! Sorry guys! But here, have a light hearted filler chapter!  
> Thank you so much to anybody who reads this <3

“Beginner’s luck Webster, that’s all.”

Webster smirks as Luz hands him over forty dollars. They are both leaning against the bar watching the commotion around them.

“You just keep telling yourself that.”

 Smiling he takes the wad of notes and folds it into the inner pocket of his new non bullet ridden suit, watching as everyone surrounds Martin, congratulating him on his promotion to Capo. The Lucky Star is thriving, flashes of red dancing across the dark wood background as all the men cheer in celebration. Webster doesn’t dare move from his barstool near the bar as he knows as soon as he stands up; he’s going to lose his spot as he watches from the outside, along with all the family’s enforcers and a few pretty birds.

A dame next to him is giggling with her friend, occasionally throwing him shy glances, which he returns with a wink. Flirting is harmless in Webster’s book, especially with dames, as he soon grows bored of their dramas and too soft skin.  Draining the last of his beer, he figures he has nothing else to do tonight and leans over to whisper in her ear. Before he can even tell her his name, Liebgott leaves the inner circle of Family men to appear out of nowhere and kiss her hand.

“Hello Cupcake, sit down and tell Joe Liebgott your name.”

 

Webster’s mouth falls open without him knowing, reconizing the same pick up line that Joe had used on him, as Liebgott pushes Webster off his stool without even looking at him so the lady can take his place. Webster moves at the lightest touch of Liebgott’s fingers and finds himself standing up next to Liebgott who is flirting with the lady as Webster gets pushed around by the other customers. Shaking his head, he throws an arm around Liebgott’s shoulders, snapping the guy’s attention to him.

He murmurs: “What the fuck Joe?”  under his breath before speaking out loud to the girls.

“Joe, good to see you, shouldn’t you be down at the church brushing up on your hymns?” The girls giggle behind their hands and gently move away, seeing both of the men are more hassle than they are worth. Joe shrugs off Webster’s arm and turns to him.

“What are you playing at Web, can’t you see I was trying to score?”

 

Webster tries to reply but finds himself being pushed on to Joe, who pushes him off again with both arms. For a moment Webster fears he’s going to be caught in between Liebgott pushing his chest and the guy behind him pushing him back again. Catching sight of the burly man who has just squeezed in behind Webster, Liebgott rolls his eyes and takes pity on the enforcer. This time, he puts his arm around Webster, and steers him into the room, away from the relative safety of the bar side. Webster is about to push him off until he realizes everyone is making room for Liebgott, creating an easy path for them, him tucked under Joe’s arm, to the other Easy family members. Once they arrive, Joe lets go of him, abandoning him as he heads over to Penkala who is arguing with Muck. A little bewildered now that he’s all on his own, he tries to get close to Martin to congratulate him.

 

“Now just think, if you had any sort of class like me, someone might mistake you for someone.”

He spots Perconte leaning on his foot against Martin’s chair, practically shoving a very shiny boots into Martin’s face, and joins him at his side.

“Like your f’cking Capo?” Martin looks up with a razor sharp stare and Webster resists the urge to flee.

 **“** Just kidding.” Both of them smile and Perconte pulls Martin up with one arm and embraces him with the other.

 **“** Congratulations.” They break apart and Martin turns to Webster, who holds out his hand formally.

“My congratulations on the promotion.”

“Christ Webster, do you always speak like that?” Martins queries as, to Webster’s surprise, he pulls him into a friendly hug and ruffles his hair.

“Have fun tonight Webster. Dick’s out of town so there’s no work to be done tomorrow.”

 

 Webster smiles back at him and turns to Luz, who is serving out drinks and snacks. Liebgott is sitting on a stool, demanding a Hersey bar along with Cobb when Webster approaches. Frowning, he freezes when he recognizes Sobel’s voice coming from the area. He'd never known Sobel, but he'd heard the man shouting at the Family on their morning jogs through New York more times than he could count.

“Soldier Toye, there will no drinking in my company! How the hell do you expect to take down men with beer swimming around your head?”

Sobel’s voice falls out of Luz’s mouth easily as he leans into Toye’s personal space. The Soldier fists a handful of Luz’s shirt, drawing him closer.

“Luz, give me a drink.”

They both grin as Luz uses his free hand to pass over a beer bottle.

“Sorry you didn’t get promoted Joe.”

“Nah, I’m happy for Martin, he’s been here longer than me.”

 

Returning back to their normal selves, Webster begins to worry if he’ll ever get used to the open fondness all the men share with each other, mixing in with constant manhandling and mocking. Looking around he spots Bill leaning on Compton, who waves his glass as a greeting to Webster. Welsh is grinning his gap toothed smile at Malarkey as Bull clears a table, setting out for a game of cards. He hears a stool topple over and is brushed aside by a kind hand as Roe rushes past him to help Heffron onto his feet. They share a fond smile as they laugh quietly. Webster turns back and claims one of the beers, reaching into his pockets to pay. But Luz waves him off.

“On the house Webster, enjoy yourself. I’ve got to go blast this card game.”

Luz pats him on the arm and abandons the stash of food and beer. Liebgott and Cobb lean over and start helping themselves to the free food, Joe turning and giving Webster a pointed look.

“Going to rat us out Webster?”

“Not at all, you could do with the extra pounds.”

The man just rolls his eyes and opens a Hershey bar, heading over to Webster who surprisingly, isn’t being pushed around by any of the family men around him. In fact the whole area is calm compared to the rest of the bar, the family men gently talking among themselves as the girls on the outside try to catch their eye and the enforcers try to impress them.

 

Eventually when the card table is set up, everyone claims a seat around it, Webster finding himself between Liebgott and Cobb. Martin stands and whistles sharply so the whole bar falls silent.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. I have to say, I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

“Yeah your grey hairs are starting to show.”

Everyone around the table laughs at Luz’s joke, whilst Martin looks fondly at him.

“I’ve been around long enough to see toddlers grow into children.”

Everyone in the bar laughs as Welsh thumps Luz on the back.

“And I want to thank everyone at this table for giving me a family. To you guys. Three bullets fired, three men down.”

Everyone toasts to Martin and Webster wonders if he’s intruding on the family as he’s the only enforcer sitting on the ‘inside’, but Randleman smiles at him and Luz asks if he wants to play, which he refuses.

“Oh come on Webster, I want to try and regain my forty dollars off you.”

“Dream on George, you’re way too good for me to ever attempt to best you at cards.”

 

Liebgott sits next to him fuming, and Webster would have handed over his forty dollars without a thought merely to know what was going through the boy’s mind. In truth, Liebgott is fuming over Webster’s lack of emotion to any given situation. Webster said, Webster said. Webster does not cheer or scream, yell or shout. And he’d have given anything to be about to read Webster’s thoughts as the blue eyed lad spares him a glance. Rubbing his forehead, Liebgott leans forward and decides that if you can’t beat them, mock them.

 

“So Webster, want to learn everyone’s name?”

“I think I know their names by now Lieb.”

He scowls at his shortened name but ignores it, motioning to Malarkey across from him.

“Donald G. Malarkey. The G stands for goofball.”

“Goofball? Seriously Joe? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I’m losing my edge.”

“What edge?  I know spoons with more edge than you.” Luz chuckles as he deals, chewing on a cocktail stick.

“George Luz, you’re an awful friend.”

Webster merely snorts at the whole exchange, leaning back with his legs stretched out in front of him, utterly at ease, Liebgott gripping the back of his chair, pushing him with a finger every now and then to accent a certain sentence.

“Then you have Alex M. Penkala, the M stands for mama’s boy.”

“You’re just jealous because Lipton loves me more than you.”

Lipton grins at Penkala across the table as he collects his cards.

“Then there’s Warren H. Muck here. I can’t think of a funny middle name as his last name is already shit.” Muck just salutes him as he continues his round of cards.

“And then there’s Norman S. Dike… Hey, where is Dike?”

“Not with Winters and Nixon.” Replies Compton as he wins a round and counts his winnings.

“Gave me the official nod this morning, but I haven’t seen him since.” Martin adds.

 Everyone’s face morphs into an image of disinterest and Webster leans over towards Liebgott, who turns his head away from the table to hear him, wafting his manly smell of cigarette's and booze all over Webster, though it smelt distinctly more alcohol ridden this time than the last couple of evenings. Webster trys not to pull a face as the ordor burns his nostrils, eradicating all other smells until Liebgott is clogging up all of his senses. 

“Isn’t the Underboss meant to get along with everyone?”

“Yeah, good ones are. We’re counting on Winters not dying on us before Foxhole Norman gets hit.”

Webster nods and withdraws, brushing along Joe’s stubble on the way. No matter how many insults the guy may lay on him, he can count on Liebgott to give him his down to earth judgment on anything. Joe leans back and returns to his showing off.

 

“And then you have the embarrassing first name group. Wynn Compton, Denver Randleman, Darrell Powers. They all just sound so posh and uptight.”

“Don’t forget your place Joseph.”

The Cajun medic speaks quietly but everyone hears him all the same, his low baritone reaching everyone’s ears. Web grins and wiggles his eyebrows at Liebgott.

“Why why Joseph, don’t like your given name?”

“Don’t get any ideas David.”

Joe sips from his glass to find it’s empty. Without hesitating he steals Webster’s and sips from it instead, ignoring Webster’s grumblings.

 

“You weren’t drinking it. So then you’ve got people whose names aren’t embarrassing, so we have to make them nicknames. Like ‘Skinny’ Sisk, ‘Gonorrhea’ over there and ‘Babe’ next to Doc. And there are the lucky bastards who have never gotten a nickname. Like Welsh, Perconte and Luz over there.”

“Consider us blessed.” Luz explains with a shrug, a cigarette half falling out of his mouth, having replaced his cocktail stick.

“Speaking of blessed, don’t you need to scrub up on your holy hymns Joe? Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“You’re going to hell Webster; don’t ever let anyone else tell you otherwise.” Joe rolls his eyes at Webster, before turning him back on him and ignoring him for the rest of the evening as he annoys Cobb instead. Webster stares at his back for a bit before Powers gently nudges his arm.

 

“Eh yes, what’s up Shifty?”

“Here, do you want me to deal you in?”

He spares Liebgott a glance but the man is ignoring him completely now, so he turns around and shrugs.

“Why not?”

Over the table, Luz rubs his hands together, happy in the knowledge that he’ll soon have his forty dollars back, if not more.

 

\--

 

Several hours later when everyone except Webster, who has to drive home, has had too much to drink, people start leaving in two and threes. All the Capo’s leave fairly early on, with most of the outside crowd following them. Then Doc and Powers bow out of another game and make their leave. A drunken Skip is carried out by Malarkey and Penkala who are only slightly less drunk. And then Toye runs out of money and leaves with Liebgott.

 

The Lucky Star seems a lot bigger when there are only Webster, Luz, Perco and Heffron left inside, Luz still trying to claim Webster of his last penny. They are all various states of drunk, Heffron resting his feet across two empty chairs, Perconte’s leaning on Luz’s thigh, ignoring the fact that Luz is cheating by looking at his cards, and Webster is the only one sitting upright, but he’s resting heavily on the back of Liebgott’s now empty chair.

 

“So, what did you do to Liebgott?” Luz drawls as he claims another couple of dollars off Webster. 

“You’re the second person to ask me that. I don’t know, I only met the guy four days ago, you know him better than me.”

“Yeah and in four days, he hasn’t shut up about you and he’s going out of his way to impress you.”

“Impress me?”

“Why do you think he mocked us earlier? We know our names.” Luz stops to take a bite out of his chocolate bar and points a finger at Wesbter's chest. “It’s the first time he’s ever been nice to an outsider; you should have seen him with Welsh when the guy first turned up.”

“You call that being nice? You’re all screwed up in the head if that’s the case.”

 **“** Oh the insults? They’re simple reverse psychology. He treats you mean, he wants you to stay clean.  Or maybe he really does just hate your guts.” This time it’s Perconte who replies sleepily from Luz’s thigh.

 “Perco, have you been at Eugene’s morphine?” Heffron opens a sleep eye to observe the Italian as he shakes his head.

“Either way, I think he just hates my guts. And right now, my guts hate me too. I’ve got to go guys.”

“Oh come on Webster, I’ll let you crash at my place.”

“Nah, I think I’ll head home. I have no idea how you guys aren’t vomiting.”

“Don’t worry, if it makes you feel better, we’ll be camped out in our bathroom all night. Be seeing you tomorrow Web.”

“Night guys.”

 

Webster stands and makes his way over to the door, wobbling a little on his legs. Once outside, he flings his arms over his face, noticing his stubble has already grown, and whispers to himself.

 

“I take that back, it’s already morning.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Nixon smiles as the train hostess leans up to pack away their cases on top, running his eyes over her curvy form. Across from him, Winters is digging away in his briefcases, looking for the tickets. They are heading to Los Angeles, to see a movie producer about getting a godson a role in his newest picture. Winters seems optimistic, but Nixon’s already got several pieces of blackmail in store just in case, including a creative one involving a horse's head.

Smiling at the girl, with beautiful long red hair not dissimilar to Winters’s, he slips a tenner into her pocket and pats her on the bum so she moves along as soon as Winters hands her the tickets with a warm smile. She thanks him with a flirty wink, but moves onto the next cabin, starting the whole process over again with three older men.

 

“Please tell me you’re not going to read for the whole trip.” Winters eyes drag away from the book he was eyeing in his case, but happily shuts it in order to speak with Nix. Nixon has already poured himself a glass of Scottish whiskey, swirling the liquid around his mouth. He hates trains and how slow they were, but Winters hadn’t wanted to take a jet. Nixon knows it’s because the trembling machine brings back not too fond memories from his army days, but he doesn’t call Dick up on it.

Whenever memories popped up, Dick’s eyes would gaze over and he’d stare at a fixed point for a few minutes. Lew had slowly learned the best thing he could do was whisper reassuring words into the Don’s ear, chasing away all the dark shadows that ruined Winters’s life. The man would then slump against him gratefully for a minute, as Lewis combed Dick’s hair and let him return to the present. Luckily he’d never had one of these episodes in front of company before, when his mind is distracted, so nobody knew how much Winters depended on Nixon.

 

“Do you want to discuss business?”

“There’s nowhere safer.” Nixon looks around to check but nobody is paying attention to the two men in smart suits with red trimmings. Nixon settles down more comfortably, his knees resting against Winters’s under the table as they sway back and forth to the rhythm of the train tracks.

“We need to take out Dukeman.”

Nixon swallows a big gulp of whiskey.

“That’s a bold move Dick. What brought that on? He’s protected by Albert’s family.”

“He’s selling drugs to kids Nix. Lipton saw him downtown in Berchtesgaden when he was out with Liebgott and Webster.”

“Albert’s family doesn’t do drugs; one of the Capo’s will sort him out and set him straight.”

“Lipton said he saw Speirs downtown that day but he doesn’t know if Speirs knows and is ignoring it, or if he just didn’t see Dukeman.”

“Speirs? That’s the new Capo right, the one with all the rumours surrounding him? If the rumours are true, he doesn’t take kindly to drugs.”

“If the rumours are true. And who knows how long before they notice, we can’t exactly point him out to them. They’ll cause us endless trouble as they’ll think it’s our fault they had to get rid of one of their soldiers.”

“The problem is Dukeman is untouchable. If we take him out, we’ll provoke war on the Fox Family.”

Winters gives him a look telling Nixon that he knows all of this, that he’s not an idiot.

 “Albert is weak; his old age has done him no favours. We can risk it if we must.”

“No, but he has a family to do the thinking for him.”

“Thinking? Those men fire on the first thing that moves and that’s the extent of their abilities. His son is Underboss and the boy is too busy juggling all of his girlfriends to pay close attention to us. His consiligere spends his time betting down at the racetrack and living out his retirement dreams. The only one with a brain in the family is Speirs. He’s single handedly holding that family together. He’s a family in his own right.”

 

Words fall out of Winters mouth so fast that Nixon has to blink a few times before his brain catches up. His mind comes up with a simple solution.

“Then we kill Speirs.” 

Nixon ignores the giveaway jump in his heart.

“Why? A waste of a good man. You know I oppose of killing pointlessly. Dukeman is a necessity; he’s selling the drugs to kids. The rest of the family is a bunch of good for nothing old men but Speirs has done us no wrong.”

 

Nixon leans back from where they had inched towards each other, breathing out. Curse Dick and his moral principles, this could be a lot easier if they could just wipe the slate clean. They drift into silence, staring at the passing countryside as it starts to rain, raindrops echoing down the carriage.

“Then we could bring him over to our side. Not only do we then have nothing to worry about with Albert’s family, we’ll have gained a Capo who after a few months of earning out trust could take over from Dike! It’s a win-win.”

Winters looks at him and laughs, only sobering up when he realizes Nixon is being serious.

“Bring Speirs over to our side? How? Speirs can’t be brought out. His sole reason for being in the business is pride. And we aren’t the only ones who have heard the rumors about him; the men won’t be comfortable around him.”

“The rumors about him killing one of his soldiers? The Soldier was dealing drugs.”

“It could be Sobel all over again.”

 

Nixon studies the frowning Winters the other side of the table and slowly fingers his top button open, pushing his red tie aside. He wasn’t sure if the heat was also affecting Winters or if the man is turning red from Nixon’s actions. He smiles to himself, looking softly at Winters.

“It depends on how we sell him.”

Winters glances up the dark haired man who is staring at him, flushed around the neck and hydrating himself with a sip of water.

“To the men” Nixon adds.

Winters can see the spark in his friend’s eyes and knows he can’t deter him from his new idea. The logs are already turning in Nixon’s mind, falling into place. It’s the reason why Nixon is such a good consiligere, he knows he will never betray him but Nixon also has a habit for thinking outside of the box.

“None of this matters as I can’t get rid of Dike and Speirs can’t be brought out.”

 Nixon just smiles knowingly, and Dick knows he’s been out witted. Shaking his head, he leans his head against the window, watching Nixon with half lidded eyes as the dark haired American soothes out all the details in his mind. Catching him looking, he grins lazily and bumps his knee against Winters.

 “Don’t worry I have a plan but if I told you, I’ll have to kill you.”

 **“** Then, just this once, don’t tell me.”

“I can get Speirs on our side.”

“You two have a secret romance in your childhood that neither of you have out grown?”

“Love is for children. I owe him a debt.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to point out a few things.  
> First of all, I'm constantly rechecking and adding little details to my older chapters, so if you spot a mistake or feel like you may have missed something, don't hesitate to ask! I feel like I may edit the whole thing once I've finished, so it flows together better, but I've got the whole plan down so there shouldn't be any problems. 
> 
> Second, I'm loosely basing my characters on Band Of Brothers, but not completely. My Heffron will be a little darker than the accident prone one you often see in fanfiction. My Joe is a Jew, even though the real Joe Liebgott wasn't. 
> 
> Third, as you may have seen, I am endlessly throwing in quotes from other films (The Avengers, Inception, Sherlock!)
> 
> Fourth, I have endless edits on my tumblr of this story and I'd like to thank everyone on there who has sent me a message showing your support :) If you wish to see something in this story, a pairing or a plot twist, anything, just ask away! I will also be posting a plan of Currahee with everyone's different flats on there soon, so if you are interested, head over to sirmordreds.tumblr and click archive and type in 'A Deal He Can't Refuse'.
> 
> Fifth, the title comes from The Godfather with inspired this whole thing! The quote is 'I'll make him a deal he can't refuse', which refers to the Don threatening someone into signing a contract saying 'either your signature or your brains with be on that dotted line' (or something like that). Whilst I used this quote as a reference to the whole mafia thing, it's also a reference to the ships. Nixon relied on Dick to get people to sign contracts, Nixon is soon to offer Speirs a deal (he can't refuse) and Webster's in this because he's so head over heels with Liebgott. (that he can't refuse)

The Lucky Star had been built in the early 1900’s, and over the years, it’s seen more than its fair share of the world. It’s hidden criminals, outlaws and prisoners; held bar fights, late night hook ups and wedding parties. It’s been burnt down, rebuilt, fallen over and rebuilt again. It’s been redecorated every few years, more and more in the last few decades to hide the blood stains. It’s gone from cheap pine with woodworm, to bullet ridden ash, to the current solid oak furniture.

The walls have ranged from cream, to red, to bright white, to a muted deep red and gold colouring with wooden decoration that it currently boasts. There are windows near the door and at the back near an important table, but they are only ever opened in the day to air out the room.

A long dark gleaming bar runs the length of the room, and the main door is in the corner on its left side. The alcohol is organized by brands and sort, starting with whiskey, brandy, scotch and the like where a whole two shelves are packed with vat 69. Expensive wine and champagne fill the middle section, and they are only every opened for the ladies that come in looking to score a handsome mobster. The right end of the bar is filled with every beer available, from every country, Germany to Japan. The bartender, currently a young man of forty years with dark features and a slight figure restocks it every night. The oak has been worn away in front of the beer taps and dark round stains left from overflowing and sloshing pints are to remain forever more on the surface, even though they have been rubbed at with more lotions than any normal family should be able to buy in their lifetime.

Around the sides of the room, there are booths, giving the impression of a dinner. They are composed of two benches with a striped cushioned back and seat, almost like a sofa. There stands a wooden table in the middle but no napkins or cutlery can be found.  They house the lower ranks of the Family, the enforcers, most of the time, but on empty nights, the Soldiers fill them when they wish to have a more private conversation with their fellow men.

In the centre of the bar, there are over a dozen round tables, of different sizes with a huge one slap bang in the middle where the Soldiers and Capos hold their legendary card games. On calmer nights, the men mostly stick to the smaller round tables, which get pushed up together to suit the men.

And at the back, there is yet again another long rectangle table, beautifully polished and hardly touched. It’s the table where the Family gathers to gossip about newcomers, rival families, or even their superiors. Only true Family members or trusted friends can be seated there, at the request of one of the men, usually a Capo. It was at this table that Webster had declined a seat on Friday at the request of Lipton, but nobody outside of the Family could possibly understand what that simple gesture of a seat meant.

 

Overall, the bar had nearly half a century’s experience with the men of this world, but never in its life, had it seen the about of flirting that the men of Easy’s seemed to fill its every corner with. Today for instance, a Sunday afternoon after the morning ritual of visiting the local church, flirting and generally touching and lack of boundaries swept over the non-family empty bar.

-

_Sunday morning, Webster’s local church, Able territory._

 

Religion is the sin of the depressed in times of war. Woman either visit so often it becomes their second home as they pray for their husbands safe return, or not enough, removing their wedding ring and going out to find a new man with whom to go steady.

And every Sunday morning, every man with an ounce of respect heads down to his local church, ducks his heads, and prays to the lord to overlook their sins that they commit every day of the week. They sing along with the hymns they’ve known of by heart since they were old enough to unfurl themselves out of their mother’s skirt. It’s a tradition of honour, of pride at their continued faith.

Well that’s the theory. In reality, everyone goes to church to check up on their neighbours. What the newest young women were wearing, which old mothers were starting to show their age, if the cheating husbands would acknowledge the object of his sinful desires in front of his wife, whose children hadn’t been taught to stand still long enough, and which child had the most heavenly voice, and who would sit next to whom.

And for the men, they check out which girls are shooting glances their way, which ones appear without a man of their arm, who had been hitting the booze heavily the night before. And they check up on the gangs and the Family’s. Able’s Family, headed by a small but ruthless man called Hall, fill the first couple of pews, their enforcers falling in behind them.

Next there are the wealthy families, their voices usually being the highest and most heavenly after decades of training in the art of singing. It was in these seats that Webster spent most of his childhood, his voice reaching up to the heavens. Then in the middle, the more religious people and middle class families, where Webster usually found his seat, his old family pulled him forward, his gang pulled him back. But today, he joins the crowd at the back of the church, the poorest and the outcasts. Being an enforcer of Easy family, his ties in this neighbourhood have changed, and for that very reason, a red handkerchief sticks out of David’s Sunday suit.

But at least he is present. Most members of his former gang the Boomers haven’t been coming since their teenage years. And he knows that people of other religions, like Liebgott, are currently in another part of town in a synagogue or whatever building they reunite in.

 

Webster stares straight ahead as he feels eyebrows lift in surprise as wandering eyes flicker over his spot at the back of the hall and the red patch of cloth pointing out of his pocket. There is no going back.

 Webster had stared at himself in the mirror this morning for a full ten minutes deciding whether to continue as normal, or show his new link to Easy’s family. Eventually, thoughts of last night’s reunion had steeled his mind and he’d slipped the red square proudly against his chest.

And now, even though he can feel the stares on him becoming more and more pronounced, including a few Soldiers and Enforcers from Able who are frowning at him, he can’t help but not care about a single one of them. He isn’t here to impress anyone, to show off his tailor cut clothes, of which he has none, or his shiny new car outside, where a dirty motorbike can be found in its place. 

As he stands there, watching the priest as he in turn is watched, he feels more than sees people around him shifting away from him. He clenches his jaw and tries not to take it personally so it won’t  cloud his judgement. But to his surprise, they aren’t moving away from him because of the red patch in his pocket, but because two men wearing plaid suits with red stitching are moving towards him. He turns to look, a frown covering his features until he sees the familiar flash of the Don’s red hair and Nixon’s tired posture behind him.

“Good morning Winters, didn’t know you were due back today Boys thought you would be gone until tomorrow.”

“The deal passed without a hitch, to Lew’s surprise.”

Webster releases his hand from Dick’s and holds it out to Lewis who looks as tired as Luz and the crowd from last night probably do.

“What are you doing in Able territory?”

Winters ignores him, focusing on the priest’s speech, as Nixon leans over to whisper to Webster, resting his hand on Winters’s shoulder.

“We change church every weekend. These places are death traps for important people, so we make sure never to keep going back to the same one, so hit men can’t knock us off as easily. And we figured we’d visit our newest enforcer, make sure Able isn’t giving him a hard time.”

“They’ve shot me a few glances, but I was only a lowlife gangster to them. And their stares have only picked up since you two arrived; even Hall shot you a look.”

Nixon nods, scratching his stubble as he straightens up. Webster shot them both a last glance, noticing how many open mouths are currently turned in their direction, and then stares straight ahead, ignoring the whispers that surrounded them for the next few hours.

-

As they pile out of the church together, moving swiftly down the steps, Webster hears a man’s voice call out to Winters. Nixon swears under his breath as all three of them reach the bottom of the steps and look up at Hall’s approaching form, backed by a wall of blue uniforms: his Family.

“Winters it’s been too long.”

Richard reaches out and shakes the man’s hand, both of them exchanging polite talk as Nixon speaks to the other Family’s consiligere. This leaves Webster on his own, trying to avoid the menacing looks coming from the Soldiers and Capos that surround him. Winters remains unconcerned by this fact, but Webster knows the man has noticed, whilst Nixon throws him a few distressed looks, eyeing the sturdy figures towering around Webster.

_Politics. Joy._

 

After a while, Hall goes off to his car smiling, followed by Soldiers who are still glaring at Webster. Nixon pats him on the arm and turns Webster around so he isn’t staring after their retreating blue backs.

“Should be nothing to worry about Webster, let’s face it, you are nothing to them. But either way, watch your back. Why don’t you head over to Currahee with us this afternoon?”

Webster nods, politely ignoring the worry he can clearly see in the corners of Winters’s eyes and goes to jump on his bike, dread filling his belly like lead.

-

“Hmm, so you think Able’s out to get you?”

“Lieb, if their looks could kill, I’d be six feet under by now.”

Webster leans back and runs a hand from his hair before kicking the table leg lightly with his foot, ignoring the vibration it causes in his bones. Around him, Luz, Perconte, Liebgott, Cobb, Toye and Martin surround him at one of the smaller round tables in the middle of the room at the Lucky Star. Webster hadn’t wanted to tell them his worries, in case they decided to do something that would make it worse, but Liebgott had taken one look at his face and announced to the club that Webster was freaking out about something and that they needed to hold a Family meeting. Of course, only the ones who were able to hold their liquor were around, the others having gone home to go back to sleep after church.

“We could hit them before they hit us.” Is Toye’s answer as he flicks open and shut his pocket knife.

“You could buy a house on Easy land.” Is Luz’s, Martin suggests hiring a bodyguard for a couple of weeks and Liebgott tells Webster that he’s just a speck of dirt in Able’s eyes and that he’s worrying too much.

“Just bake them a cake.” Offers Cobb with a grin.

“Or better yet, get Lieb here to bake it.”

“I’d just like to point out, Luz, that you liked my last cake so much, you’d piled most of it onto your plate before it even touched the table.”

Webster smiles to himself as the boys descend into bickering kids, all of them claiming George had had more than his fair share and asking whether it was true he’d licked all of the icing. Raising his coffee to his lips, he takes a calm sip before gulping down his mouthfull as he practically slaps the cup down. Rechecking his ears had served him well, he hesitates as the men quieten down and turn towards the sound of china clashing against china. Webster ignores them and stares at Liebgott wide eyed, not even bothering to hide his shock.

“You bake?”

Luz ducks his head into his elbow to muffle his chuckle, Perconte leaning against George’s back; Martin and Toye eye each other as they judge how Liebgott is going to reply and Cobb straightens up, eyes wide and alert.

“Why so shocked Harvard boy? Does baking seem…unmanly to you?”

Perconte’s laugh escapes the folds of Luz’s shirt as Webster notices his eyes watering. The others roll their eyes as Joe stares at Webster with a cold face, trying to make him back down. But Webster grins at him a slow _it’s fine, it’s all fine_ smile to match Joe’s warm eyes. Webster leans back and tries to imagine the sharp looking gangster in front of him with flour coating his hand styled hair, a dirty apron around his narrow frame, with icing on his hands as he concentrates on decorating a pure white cake. He tries to overlay this image with reality as the man in question smirks at him. Shaking his head, he holds his hands in the air, glad the smile on his face has washed aware all his worries for the moment.

“I’ve tried, and I just can’t see it.”

“You have to see it to believe it, trust me. Get up Joe, give the lad a twirl.”

Joe slides his chair back across the wooden floor and stands up. Throwing a wink at Webster, he gives him a 360° panoramic. Webster kind of feels guilty about using the time to run his eyes over Joe’s body, from his hair to his neck to his arse, but his eyes do it anyway, his voice getting caught in his throat.

“Sexy Joe, though I have to admit you look gay enough that….” Toye hesitates as he thinks for a moment, looking around the slowly filling bar. “You look gay enough that Luz would bang you.”

Luz stands up at the same time as Toye and together they run after each other out on to the street, Perconte cheering Luz on.

“Christ, Toye’s got the keys on him.” Joe tucks his chair under the table and pulls on his sport jacket. He offers the table a look that almost looks like he’s apologizing about the behaviour of his own children. But he leans down until his eyes are at the same height as Webster’s increasingly heated stare and there’s a flicker of laughter in them that shoots a bullet of warm straight into Webster’s hormone flooded brain.

“Fine, you don’t believe me? My house, eleven o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

He ruffles Webster’s hair as he stands up and exits after Luz and Toye, who are heading towards the bay, weaving in between the traffic. Webster spends so long wondering why Joe’s touch is making his head burn that he nearly misses the fact that he’s going to spend tomorrow cooking…with Joe Liebgott.

 

-

 

_Go be his woman!_

His brain sounds sarcastic even to him. And though he was loathe to admit it, some part of him, deep down, buried under his cool exterior he had built growing up in posh dining rooms then the backstreets, secretly wants to.  A bigger part of him wants to be, more than anything, even more than getting rich, famous, being a writer and joining the Family and becoming a Soldier, the man people thought of at Joe Liebgott’s side. The one that charmed him over for a reason no one else could see. The one people could expect to see sitting next to him, the one who was his emergency contact. The one that would hunt down and seek out revenge on anybody that ever hurt Liebgott. As much as Joe had originally hated him, they have relaxed into a friendship which is mostly based around one of the retorting the others remarks. Well it’s not a friendship, not even a partnership, but they can move around each other without hitting or snapping at the other which is a huge accomplishment compared to the start of the week.

Hmm, at the start of the week he’d been able to walk around his neighborhood without constantly watching his back. Last night he’d pulled into Able’s territory and had practically ran up to the safety of his flat, where he’d double checked all the windows before setting up tripwires. He may have been paranoid, but he’d never seen someone look at him with pure hate before. Even Liebgott with his mocking, it may have been hard but it was bearable once Liebgott would crack a small smile at one of Webster’s responses. He’d moved to the phone next to his bed, and jotted down a few numbers in case he heard something. The cops wouldn’t been any help, so he’d written Nixon, who he knew would know how to deal with his situation, and Lipton’s, who he hoped would be able to round up a crew if he needed back up.

He parks his bike under a green tree outside of Liebgott’s and Toye’s flat, the shade punctuated by sunshine through the leaves. The empty letter box has a simple Joe and Joe, written in a bold black pen. Webster taps his fingers against it a few times before heading up the stone steps to the old green wooden door and knocking on the polished gold knocker sitting proudly underneath the 150. He hears Joe’s muffled voice coming from inside and figures that’s his invitation to come in. Ignoring the flips his stomach seems to be doing, he steps inside, hanging his coat up on the rack by the door and heading through the living room to what he supposes is the kitchen, where he can hear pans being pushed around.

“Honey, I’m home.”

He sings as he turns around the corner, flushing red when he sees Luz and Penkala are already here, laughing at his red face.

 “And what sort of time do you call this?”

Liebgott has his hands on his slim hips and he turns pretending to scowl at Webster like an old wife. Webster’s so caught up looking at the gleam in his eyes that it takes him a moment to realize what Joe is wearing. An apron. A woman’s apron. With lacing on the edges and flour shaped handprints down the sides. Catching Luz’s eye, he bursts out laughing as Joe throws a matching apron at him and continues speaking in a woman’s high pitch.

“Put this on Sweetheart, wouldn’t want to ruin your clothes, I’ve just washed them.”

Frowning at the awfully pink apron, but seeing no other way, Webster slings it over his head, and before he can attempt to do up the strings, Liebgott turns him around and starts tying the knot behind his back. Trying not to shiver under the touch of his fingers roaming his back and ignoring the fact that his stomach seems to be preparing to run the Olympic 500 meters hurdles, he rolls his eyes at Luz.

“This is better than going to the cinema. I knew it was going to be good, but this good? I should have brought my camera! Pay up Penk, I told you he was going to show. ”

 George stands up from his seat, motioning to Penkala to follow him. As George leaves the building ten dollars richer, Penkala turns and winks at Webster.

“Welcome to the family… Sweetheart.”

Laughing as he throws flour at the smooching faces the boys are making in the door way, Liebgott shoves a bowl into Web’s hands and tells him to start whisking. Webster’s insides warm as he spots the red patches coloring Joe’s cheeks and the general mayhem of the kitchen.

“You free for lunch?”

“Of course.”

“Dick’s house?”

“My favorite.”

“Two o’clock?”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re cooking.”

“Not available.”

“You’re baking Webster, there’s no getting out of this.”

Joe pushes him over to the carrots and orders him to start peeling. Webster struggles with the device until Joe sighs and steps in next to him, hip to hip, forearm to forearm, slowly showing the correct movements to Webster who watches Joe’s hands with narrowed eyes. Satisfied of having learnt the technique after Joe’s done about two, he places his hands on top of Joe’s and gently pries them off the instrument. He picks up a carrot and copies the swirling movements perfectly, as Joe turns towards him, his breath caressing his cheeks as he watches Web’s hands. With a content sound that Webster wishes he could get Joe to repeat endlessly, Joe nods, his hair flopping into Webster eyes as they are standing so close and turns away towards the oven, crouching down to peer inside. Webster peels another to make sure he’s content with the action, then clearing the lump that has formed in his throat.

“How many carrots do we need?”

Webster looks over his shoulder to look at Joe and nearly draws blood on the carrot slicer as he tumbles. Joe’s arse is sticking in the air as he peers down into the oven, testing some mince pies with a long metal stick. And whilst the view is enough to make Webster lose his breath, the hand shaped flour marks on each of Liebgott’s arse cheeks where he’s wiped his hands requires Webster to bite down on his lower lip to stop him from voicing a low moan.

“We’re not going to have a magnificent garden party and then not invite anybody! Anyway, Bull and Johnny are already setting up the formal dining table at Winter’s house. You’ve eaten there before?”

 “The first time I came to Currahee, when I was invited to become an enforcer, Winters’s had a meal ready for me and Nixon. I think it was mostly to sober Nix up, but it’s was brilliant, the sort of thing you would expect a wife to make.”

“Well I promise you this Darling, I cook even better.”

Webster just nods, pretending to ignore the jealous expression that had fallen upon Joe’s face when he described Winters’s meal.

Liebgott mumbles “Remember to wear a jacket.”

 “You wear a jacket.”

Joe just huffs out a sigh at Webster’s remark and closes the oven door, frowning when he sees Webster’s slow progress.

“I think we’d better reschedule lunch for four o’clock.”

-

Later, as the all the Family’s men gather around in Winters’s formal dining room, and Winster’s mansion is pretty impressive, Skip gasps as his eyes fall upon the feast before him. Huge mountains of glazed carrots dot the table and a whole lamb with mint sprinkled across its darkened skin sits proudly in the center, bowls filled with peas are placed every few plates along, and the potato dish is being passed around. The men are all laughing as sunshine filters through the window and falls upon their full wine glasses, filled by dark red wines that Nixon has pulled up out of nowhere. Winters sits at the head of the table, the king of his castle, chasing peas around his plates as he laughs with Welsh and Nixon. Lipton is keeping everyone’s glass filled as Buck asks after his girlfriend. Bull and Martin have their plates piled so high Muck can barely see them. Webster and Liebgott seat side by side in the center of the table, wearing matching smiles as people enjoy their food all around them. Muck sits himself down next to Heffron, Doc and Luz, who has claimed the opposite end of the table and has already started on dessert, his spoon currently filled with a lump of rich chocolate cake.  Muck honestly wonders if Luz even had any of the main courses or if he just started on the cakes as soon as he had sat down.

“So Don how do you like it?”

Malarkey lifts his head from across the table where he’s flicking peas at Bill and Toye with deadly accuracy.

“Not bad Skip, not bad.”

“Except?”

“The whole thing’s way too sweet.” He flicks his eyes over to where Liebgott‘s arm is circling Webster’s chair as they smile at each other fondly. Muck smirks; he’d never known Joe could act so loving. He cuts a chuck of the lamb and gestures for the potato’s as he chews on some freshly made bread.

“R we gunnah ave ta redum Lybgoat Mamah Lyb?”

“Learn not to talk with your mouth full you hillbilly prick.” Heffron lightly slaps him around the back of his head and Skip’s head juts forward as he tries to swallow to avoiding choking. Roe eyes Babe wearily and slaps him over the head for Skip.

“What did you say Skip?”

Skip has already put another fork full of peas into his gob but this time he holds a finger in the air whilst he swallows.

“Are you going to have to rename Liebgott Mama Lieb?”

Perco leans over to claim the last couple of potato’s and catches Skip’s question.

“Oh no it’s daddy Lieb and Mama Web. Sorry old man.”

The Italian nods at Lipton who seems more than relieved to hand his nickname over to Webster, who looks astounded at this turn of events, his mouth opening and closing like a gold fish. But Liebgott just sneers at them and steals a cake off Webster’s plate whilst he’s distracted. Normally Skip would point out that he isn’t denying it as a normal person would, but then again, thinking about it, Liebgott and normal have and never will be used in the same sentence together.

-

Webster finally chooses to ignore the boys’ mocking, distracted by Liebgott’s stealing.

“Joe, control your children.”

The guy throws with a shit eating grin and lightly claps his knee.

“You’re the one that brought them into this world Darling.”

 Webster rolls his eyes and returns to the meal he’d spent all morning on with Joe. It’s been too long since he’s eaten a proper country meal in the company of friends. The homemade biscuits, the lamb and its garnishing’s and the thick gravy are enough to make him tear up.  He feels Joe’s leg press against his as he leans away from Toye’s pea flicking, and it remains there once they’re done.

The company reminds him of his gang for whom he had barely spared a thought and the food brought make memories of a childhood he’d kept locked away. But this was different from the stuck up guests of his younger years and the food beats the bread and butter of his gang years hands down. It was food made and eaten with love. It tastes like home. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just keep getting longer and longer! And I thought this one would be really short!  
> Either way, hope you enjoy it, it's a lot darker than usual, which was the tone I was originally going to set, but things got out of hands with all the Webgott fluff.

David Webster is looking down at him, a larger than lifeportrait of dishevelled fatigue. He looks drained, used up. A soul in search of something it can’t find. Joe can’t recall why he’d told the bar to phone Webster after he’d downed his sixth bottle of New York’s finest. Probably because all the other members of Easy are sick of coming to get him in the middle of the night when he’s been drinking. Which he could swear doesn’t happen that often. The last time was last year after he’d had to shoot down some kid that was barely old enough to be out of school, this hauntingly pale face with too large eyes hadn’t been able to leave his brain. He can’t even remember why he’d come out drinking tonight. He has a feeling that it was ironically because he was trying to escape Webster. The very same guy he’d had to call in order to come get him.

“I was asleep.”

Joe eyes Webster, taking in the tired eyes framed by dark rings and the sleep in the corners of his eyes. Liebgott leans forward to brush the lumps away with his thumb, his hand coming to rest on Web’s large overcoat, his respect of personal boundaries washed away by a few too many drinks. He flinches away as soon as his hand nearly slips on the wet fabric. Webster sighs and wipes away the irritating ball of sleep with the back of his hand, looking over to the bartender, a youthful black German guy who Joe had seen sneaking out back to inhale some dope earlier. He’d fought down the urge to join him. That was a road he’d abandoned long ago, a sacrifice he’d gladly made in order to join the Family.

“Give us a hand mate.” The foreigner eyeballs Joe wearily and Joe flicks him a smile, baring all his teeth, as he makes his way over, placing his keys of the bar. Together the two sober men put their arms around him and lift him out of his seat, away from his table filled with empty beer bottles in the far corner. Joe unabashedly leans into Webster’s familiar smell of coffee and ink, breathing in deeply to steady himself. Webster’s throat gulps as Joe sticks his nose into his collar and Joe watches his Adam apple bob. To his left, he hears the German mutter under his breath.

“Bloody cocksuckers.”

Rage bursts through him, a rage that he keeps locked inside of him every day; like boiling water under glass. A rage at everyone for thinking that calling someone gay is an insult, that people like him are frowned upon and unaccepted by society. The rage pours through him, clouding his mind as he tenses and shudders violently. Webster, who has politely ignored the insult seeing as he’s too busy propping Joe up, tightens his grip on Joe’s waist, his fingers digging into Liebgott’s hipbone. People like this immigrant could do with pulling their stick out of their arse and sticking something else up there instead.

 **“** Yeah, you want a go? Suck on this.”

Pushing Webster off of him and over a nearby table with his right arm, and how he still has the strength to sweep a full grown man off his feet whilst half drunk he has no idea, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pistol. Without even hesitating, he places it in the surprised man’s open mouth and pulls the trigger. Webster looks up in surprise at the loud bang from below the tipped over table he’d slid across, his hat sitting wonky on his messed up hair, but thankfully the bar and its surrounding areas are long dead. He brushes past Joe, laying a hand on his arm as he passes and leans down to check for a pulse. Joe already knows he won’t find one. Blue eyes look up at him, disappointment showing in the corners. Joe just shrugs at him, wondering why Webster isn’t scared about his own life as Joe waves the gun around. Focusing on it in his drunken haze, he slowly places it on the table, pushing it away from him with unsteady hands. He doesn’t want to hurt Webster. He never wants Webster to be hurt.

 “I want a divorce” is Webster only reaction, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a way that makes Joe want to rent out penthouse suites in hotels so he can fuck Webster against floor-to-ceiling windows. "This is out of order Joe, even for you."

Batting his lashes, Joe says, "Oh, David, I guess you haven't heard then — I've been cruelly abused but luckily I have my Family to clean up after me."

Webster's mouth twitches again, and Joe layers in a few bottles of expensive champagne, a basket of strawberries, silk sheets. Webster looks down at the body, wiping away the red blood covering his fingers "An expandable man to be sure," he allows.

It's a shock to the system, because of all the ways Liebgott has imagined Webster, he's never imagined Webster would react so calmly, and he's half-giddy when he sighs:

"You have no idea, darling. However shall I cope as a single parent without you?"

“Maybe I’ll put off the divorce for a while then.”

Webster moves past him again and snatches up the pistol, sliding it into one of his coat’s pockets. Sighed Joe watches him look from the dead body to Joe and back to the body again.

“Just.” He falters, and draws in a deep breath. “Just stay here Joe.”

Webster waves his hand in the general direction of Joe’s face and Joe squints at the movement, as motion sickness hits his brain, forcing him to sit back down at one of the tables. Webster heads over to the door and locks it, using the keys from the bar, heading out behind the counter to do the same at the back, dimming the lights as he goes until the only light in the room is provided by the bar’s back light and the moonlight entering through the netted curtains. Webster places his hat on the bar and reaches for the phone, his eyes staring holes into Joe as he shifts his weight from leg to leg as the operator dials.

“Hello Martin? Yeah I know the hour, but we could really use some help. Me and Liebgott.”

 Liebgott stares at Webster’s pink mouth as it forms a circle, stretches and exposes teeth as he talks to Martin. He hums to himself when his name falls from Webster’s lips, the vibration rattling around in his head before descending all the way to the tips of his toes. Christ, he needs a drink.

“Could you come over with a few guys to…” Webster’s eyes flick around the room, falling on a match box with the bar’s name and addressed printed on, flipping it open with his spare hand with an elegant gesture using only two fingers. “…to Blue rock’s bar, 3rd Street? Thanks. And ff you could drive Joe’s car back to his house and put my bike somewhere safe, that would be great. And can you send a car out to the observatory, in the park, you know where I mean? Good, we’ll see you in a few hours.”

He pauses as Joe dimly hears Johnny’s voice fill the silence in the room and Joe continues watching Webster through hooded eyes, waiting for the inevitable break down that will hit Webster any second now. But it never comes; Web just keeps watching him, his eyes guarded.

“Oh, we’ve got to do some housekeeping. Thanks Johnny.”

He hangs up and picks up his hat. Twirling it around his finger a few times, he returns to Joe, standing in front of him, his smell once again invading Joe. Webster stares at him sadly, chewing on one corner of his mouth before placing his hat over Joe’s head. Joe tips his necks back and lifts the hat so he’s able to see and is rewarded with the sight of Webster stripping out of his over coat, his shirt straining across his chest. Joe somehow resists the temptation to lean forward but there’s a knowing smirk in Webster’s tired smile that lets Joe know he’s in on his secret. Joe puffs out his cheeks, but at least he won’t have to hide it any more, not from Webster. He doesn’t want to hide anything from Webster, but that might just be the alcohol surfing through his veins.

Webster pushes his coat into Joe’s arms and Joe tries extremely hard to maintain some dignity in the situation by not lifting it so he could breathe in the all Webster smell.

“Put it on, it’s to hide your identity.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a made man and I’m a mere enforcer. If the police see me dragging a body into the trunk of my car, they’ll make less of a fuss than if it was you. If they catch you, the newspapers will have a field day. Wear the jacket.”

Joe smiles lazily as he stands up, finds his balance as the world around him sways, bringing Webster out of focus then into focus again and shoulders the coat, thinking about their cooking adventure a few days ago, he can’t remember when exactly right now, details escape him. Stepping ahead of Webster as the mobster picks up the body by the underarms, they slowly pass around the back of the bar, Joe pocketing himself a bottle of good vodka as Webster huffs and puffs as he slowly drags the body inch by inch. Joe leads him out of the back door, which he unlocks with the key Webster had kindly left in the lock. Sticking his head out, he’s pleased to see the side alley is clear and out of sight from any passers-by. He reaches behind him and grabs the keys, heading over to the trashy white smith 200 custom.

Opening the driver’s door to pop the trunk, Webster slowly hulls the body to the rear then lifts it in with one long effortless gesture. Frowning, he kicks in the man’s hands and feet before slamming the trunk shut, the bang echoing down the stone walls of either side of them. He moves around to the driver’s door, facing Joe who stands there watching him, squinting from the glare of the car’s headlights.

“No way are you driving, you get shotgun.” Webster stresses. Joe pushes himself off the car and walks around to the other side, using one hand to steady himself all the while.

“Hold up. Put these on the bar before we leave.” Webster slides two sets of keys across the flat bonnet and Joe thanks God Webster didn’t throw them as he struggles to pick them up. As Webster lowers himself into the car, he carries the sets of keys into the bar. One has a Harley Davidson key ring on it, obviously Webster’s bike, and the other set is, to Joe’s surprise, his own. When did Webster pick his pocket? Heck, Webster is one smooth criminal. Either way, he sets them on the bar for one of the Family to pick up later, and glares at the red spot on the carpet where he’d shot the man.

Why did he do that again? It seemed so important to prove a point, but what was it? Was it worth it in order of making Webster look so tired? Yes, it was, it had been about gays. He needed to stick up for himself, he didn’t tolerate homophobia. He retreats out back to the car to find Webster coolly smoking as he leans back against the cheap red and white leather seats. Sitting himself down, he reaches over and plucks the roll right out his mouth, his fingertips brushing over Webster’s mouth. He’d regret his actions in the morning, he is sure, but right now, he can’t bring himself to regret any gesture he’s making that brings him closer to Webster. Not when Webster’s eyes darken like that. 

“How come you aren’t freaking out Darling?”

 Webster just bats his eyelids a few times and lights a new cigarette, breathing in deeply. Ignoring the question, he turns over the keys and starts the car up. Joe leans back against the passenger door, watching the street lamps flick shadows over his face. The innocent have long since retired to bed, and gangs coked up on drugs line the streets. They sneer at cheap drug runner car, but the shadows from the surrounding terraces thankfully hide their faces.  The city is a depressing sight even to his drunk infested mind, so he turns his head to the stars. The way the stars shine down on the bay remind Joe of some painting by an artist that Webster probably gets off on; Van Gogh or something.

 Eventually he grows bored of staring at the stars and turns to watch Webster. The top half of his face is hidden in shadow and the lower half varies in and out of a golden colour with the passing cars and street lamps. The usually kind blue eyes that take offense so easily are shielded, the tropical sea blue turned cold like the Arctic Ocean.  Webster watches the road closely, his eyes flickering between the wing mirror, the road and Joe. An angry flash appears in his eyes the first couple of times their eyes meet, for once Webster holds the upper hand on him. Joe counts himself lucky that Webster’s giving him the silent treatment. He never ever wants to face the torrent of insults that could easily fall out of Webster’s mouth, even though most of them are likely to pass right over his head. He couldn’t understand half of the long fancy words Webster used when he was debating with Guarnere, only Compton had cracked a few laughs, but Webster had used a tone of voice that had clearly projected his discontent in an arrogant posh lilt.

That’s the thing about Webster: he's a complete fucking dick all the fucking time, and it's so easy to get so absorbed in what an irritating shit he is that Liebgott forgets to pay attention to other things. Things like how he's charming nine times out of ten. Things like the way he gets this adorable little frown on his head when he’s missing something and Joe can’t help but lean over and fill in the blanks, just so Webster fill flash him a blinding thankful smile. Things like the fact that he's charmed half of the Family in the first week and suddenly Joe is mostly alone in fucking hating him, even though, of course, Joe doesn't really hate him at all. Complicated is the wrong word for their relationship, but, to be entirely fair, Joe can't exactly think of a more suitable adjective. Webster probably could, start churning out long words with too many syllables that he’d learnt in college studying some long dead poet.

He turns away from Webster, staring at himself in the mirror. Dark brown eyes stare back at him, an angry spark in his eyes, hidden behind a drunken glaze over. His dark hair that he distinctly remembers slicking back at some point today, just in case he runs into Webster, is partially falling in his eyes now. Webster’s overcoat is open to show off the white shirt Joe is wearing, Webster’s hat placed on the dashboard in front of him. He rests his cheek on his shoulder, challenging his reflection, whilst all the while drifting off to sleep as Webster’s smell surrounds him. 

“Is this personal to you?”

Webster’s voice breaks the easy silence, jolting Joe back from the edge of sleep’s comforting embrace.

“You what?” He stifles a yawn behind his hand and flips his head over so his other cheek rests on his left shoulder, gazing up a Webster, who looks like a god, his profile against the backdrop of New York at this point.

“Is this personal to you?”

His words are clipped, sharper than the calmer softer tone he’d used on Joe before. Joe tenses. Webster’s angry, really angry, and a really good actor to have kept himself under control for this long. Not to mention he still has Joe’s gun in his back pocket.

“No, I’m under goddamn orders.”

“Winters’s orders?”

“You think Winters would order me to kill some homophobic drug faced bartender on my night off? Use goddamn college brain of yours. Or acquire some common sense.”

“Then why kill him? Because he was homophobic?”

“Wouldn’t you kill him?”

There’s a pause.

“No.”

Liebgott laughs bitterly into the silence of the car but his gaze refuses to meet Webster’s.

“There are rumors the Nazis had camps where they’d ship all the Jews. No-one’s certain what happened to them once they were there.” He knows more than he is letting on – man’s inhumanity to man. “I don’t get what difference it makes if you worship in a church or a temple.”

  _If you cut me, do I not bleed?_  The Shakespeare quote springs to Joe’s mind, a fact he’s sure Webster would be proud of him about. Such discrimination is beyond his ability to comprehend.

Webster adds onto Joe’s conversation. “Jews were not the only group persecuted. They had singled out other so-called ‘undesirables’, such as gypsies and homosexuals.”

Joe had been about to take the last drag of his cigarette, but pauses for a moment, catching Webster’s eye and in that moment, he knows. Sitting back in his seat, his gaze never leaving Webster’s face, he pulls in a lungful of smoke and letting it out slowly through his nose, throwing what is left of his cigarette out of the window.

Their eyes hold each other’s as a silent communication passes between them and it seems like it lasts forever, but Joe guesses is probably no more than a minute. It would be a moment in time Joe will look back on with fondness throughout the rest of his life.

Webster’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, turning white. “So you’ve got personal reasons for getting involved,” Joe says quietly. Not quite a declaration, but close enough.

He watches Webster’s Adam’s apple bob. “Perhaps.”

Things have relaxed for people of their kind – homosexuals – since the end of war, but not that much. Caution is written into every potential encounter.

They both slip back into silence, the things they dare not say to each other screaming in juxtaposition. Joe hates himself, letting his eyes wander over Webster’s hard profile. How can he miss something he’s never even had?

Webster makes a sharp turn off the main road, heading up a hill to a car park in front of a tall unusual looking building: the observatory. Driving to the other end, Webster stops the car and gets out. Joe remains in his seat as he watches Webster break the padlock on the metal gate with a nearby spade. After pushing them open, he climbs back in, handing the spade over to Joe. He takes it, lifting the heavy tool, confusion written clearly on his face. But Webster ignores him and drives through the gates and into the park on the other side, above the town below. Pulling over at the side of one of the smaller paths, he turns off the ignition. Opening the door, he leans over Joe to take his hat, grabs the spade out of Liebgott’s hands and exits the car, Joe stumbling out after him.

Throwing the spade over his shoulders, Webster wanders off into the bush for a few minutes, leaving Joe alone in the darkness. Is he going to come back? Or has he left Joe here with a dead man’s car as an evil punishment for his sins? Just as a bead of sweat is starting to form on Joe’s brow, his heart fluttering, Webster appears again, stepping through the bushes, spadeless. His eyes flick over Joe’s swaying drunken form before ignoring him again and popping the trunk. Dragging the body out, Joe closes the boot behind him and follows them into the bushes. They battle their way through for a minute until they pop out the over side where Webster’s spade is waiting for them. Setting the dark body down, Webster picks up the spade and begins to dig a grave, right there overlooking the city. Knowing he won’t be of any help on his unstable legs, Joe goes over to the nearest tree and sits down, back and head thumping off the old bark.

“You come here often Web?”

“Often enough that they’ve started to leave a shovel out for me.”

His answer is followed by a dark look and Joe decides to shut up before he gives Webster a reason to start digging a second grave for him. They stay there for a few hours, Webster digging away, and Joe drinking from his snatched bottle. Once the ditch is deep enough, Webster kicks the body in and gets to work refilling the hole. Joe tumbles to his feet, and grabs onto Web’s arm to stop himself from falling straight back down onto his arse.

“Gimme that.”

He snatches the spade from the guy’s hands, and gives him the bottle in return. Slowly at first, Joe picks up a shovel full of dirt and tips it into the tomb. He has to repeat the notion a few more times before Webster relaxes and steps out of his way, taking a swipe from the bottle, his lips tracing the glass where Joe’s had been not a minute ago. After a longer about of time than a sober man would have spent doing the same job, Liebgott stands back to admire his handiwork. Grabbing a few branches and few, he scatters them around to disguise the grave before turning back to Webster, who’s been sitting under the tree drinking. Offering the young man a hand, he yanks him to his feet and reaches out to--to do something, straighten Webster's collar or something--and then visibly thinking better of it.

This is his chance. After tonight he’ll never have the excuse of being off his head with all the liquor he’s drunk, Webster will never come collect him again. They stare at each other, their gazes growing heated, Webster’s neck the focus of Liebgott’s attention as Webster eyes his lips. He leans forward out of instinct, he’s always been an act and apologize later kind of guy. Webster swallows and Joe’s close enough that he can hear it. Turning his face to caress Webster’s cheek with his forehead, he runs his nose over the stubble that’s grown on Webster’s jaw; making Webster expose his neck, ripe for the picking. Joe hates himself for hesitating: Webster has made himself perfectly clear and he’s always been able to read between the lines. Each one of their fallings outs and awkward silences had been due to the unresolved sexual tension between them, practically splitting at the seams, even the other guys had left them be to sort it out instead of sticking their noses in. He’d been ready to jump Webster that time in the club when their breathes had combined to one big exchange of air between them. And now, they are standing in an empty park with no one to disturb them, a romantic view of New York behind their silhouettes as Joe pins Webster to the tree with his hands on Web’s wrists and his legs slotted between his, his thigh brushing Webster through his jeans. Webster’s mouth heaves as he tries to catch his breath, the warmth settling heavily on Joe’s lower belly. There will be never such an ideal moment. If it wasn’t for the grave that Joe has just filled behind them.

“Fuck, I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Joe has hesitated too long and the moment’s passed. Webster firmly shoves Joe off of him and takes a big gulp of vodka, humming in pleasure. Joe just sighs and lights a fag, watching for the inevitable breakdown yet again. But Webster surpasses Joe’s expectations a second time as he finishes off the bottle, to his own surprise, then flings it over the hill and out onto the city. He stares down Joe’s small smirk, rubbing his lips, and stubbles into the bushes, Joe following him blindly. They walk past the spot where they parked the car to find Easy has already disposed of it. Grinning happily at Webster, the enforcer is drunk enough to return the gesture as they spot Toye’s car waiting near the gate. Watching Webster slowly blink at the head lights, he happily fools himself into believing that Webster will be too drunk to remember any of this tomorrow.

 

\--

 

Lewis Nixon is protective of many things. He’s protective of his family, from his ma and Dad in Sicily to his dog at home. He’s protective of his Family, from Dick right down to his newest recruit Webster, who already seems like one of the men. He’s protective of his business, shutting down any rivals that may threaten him before they can even get a foot off the ground. But mostly, he’s protective of his past.

 

Nixon knows everything there is to know about everyone else. People believe that the past is the past and that it will never jump out to get them. Nixon is there to set them straight as he blackmails them into doing unpleasant jobs for him; ranging from congress men to his bagmen. He makes it his business to know everything about anyone he may ever come into contact with. His home is full of old leather bound folders with embarrassing photos that some men wish their wives will never see, others who wish that the media will never see them.

See, in New York, big time gangsters are better than celebrities to journalists. They are supposed to be the secret seedy underbelly of New York, yet the business part of the paper is filled with their new investments, the social section has photos of the mob attending famous parties and what label they were wearing. And they have all the dirty gossip spread out across the front page when one of the made men gets sent to the can.

Nixon is the one to supply them with all of this; directly by a telephone call or meeting, or indirectly by the post or his ever useful homeless connections. They scratch his back if he scratches theirs. He just makes sure to disinfect his hands afterwards.

Since before he can remember it being a conscious decision, he has learnt to watch the people around the target to get the more useful information that his business relies on. A knowing smirk that means someone will turn down the deal or the swift eyebrow raise at the payoff if someone’s going to accept. He’s learnt to read between the lines and to know his business proposition so well he can recite it off by heart; backwards.

It’s these little habits that allowed him to be a consiligere, and a respected one, without ever receiving a helping hand or official lesson. He’s cut it pretty close before, but between himself and Dick, they’ve made profit out of every endeavour this past year.

-

Nixon ignores his wife’s shrill voice following him down the stairs as he puts on his overcoat and hat, glad that the rain’s eased off. She’s going on about him being a useless husband but he’s not really paying attention as he slams the door on her and unlocks his fancy black delage D8-120 Poutout Aero-Co with red seats. Dick had laughed his head off when he’d seen what Lew had spent his first pay check on, but the grin was warm and he’d demanded to have a ride in it. Nixon had been all too happy to oblige, cruising around the city with the windows down, Winters actually grinning next to him as they sang along to the radio.

Nixon smiles at the memory as he pulls out of his drive and loops around Easy’s estate. In front of the Lucky Star, Johnny and Toye are clambering into their cars with Buck and Lipton climbing in behind Johnny and Welsh in with Toye. His throat catches at the sight of the nearly all the capo’s leaving together and he lowers his window as he drives by, sweeping the concern off his face.

“Hi guys, what’s up? Planning to murder the Don again? Because I’ve got to know these things.”

Lipton smiles at him, half way into Johnny’s car, gets out and leans down to speak to Nixon.

“Nothing to worry back, we’ve just got to clean up after Joe and Webster’s little domestic.”

Joe and Webster? Appears they’ve put aside their differences for a night then. Nixon feels as though something important has just taken place. He just has no idea what it is.

“Did Webster finally try to knock off Joe?”

“Honestly, we have no idea; it could well be the case. We’re heading over to the Blue Rock’s bar somewhere on 3rd street. We’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Thanks Lip. And don’t forget, you’re gonna need to reassemble the men…”

“Yeah, tomorrow at the Lucky Star at 6. I’ve got it Nix, relax. Go have fun at the bar.”

Nixon smiles at Lipton who climbs back into the awaiting car. Of all the men, Lipton is the one you can rely on in any situation. Need someone to be a referee at a meeting? He’s got himself a reputation as a no opinion’s guy. Need someone to come drag you back to your house because you’re so pissed up you can’t even remember who you are supposed to call? Lipton won’t abandon you. Need someone to help you lead a takeover on a hub? Lipton is a respectable combat leader.

He’s an all-rounder that’s as good as the legal part of the family as he is at the filthy business. Nixon’s thought about training him to take over as consiligere. But he needs to find an Underboss he can trust first. And get rid of Dike. But that’s all in the works; the motions are soon to be set in place.

He drives off safe in the knowledge Lipton will fill him in tomorrow. Or Buck, or Guarnere who will have heard all about it from Toye. That’s the trick with informers. Everyone’s an informer, so in the end, no-one is. He heads out of Currahee, over the river through Able territory to Fox.

-

Lewis Nixon is protective of many things. He’s protective of his family, from his ma and Dad in Sicily to his dog at home. He’s protective of his Family, from Dick right down to his newest recruit Webster, who already seems like one of the men. He’s protective of his business, shutting down any rivals that may threaten him before they can even get a foot of the ground. But mostly, he’s protective of his past.

 

Nixon knows everything there is to know about everyone else, but no one, not even Dick, knows Lewis’s past. The past that he’s forcing himself to meet tonight without even a single drop of alcohol in his system. His mind is screaming murder.

Because Nixon has hidden his upbringing away behind closed doors, locked up for no one to see. Nobody knows how often he’d felt his father’s belt. Nobody knows how he’d developed his drinking habit after stealing his mother’s alcohol from her bedside table. Nobody knows he’d only started smoking after his sister had walked in on him making out with his tutor. A male tutor. He was a disgrace to his family’s name and he’d been lucky to have shown a flair for business or there was no doubt in his mind he would have been disinherited. He can remember stiff evening meals with too many forks. Cold smiles and the fake pats on his back when he got his degree. He still has a photo album filled with fake happy memories that his arranged marriage wife had insisted on displaying around his house. It was little wonder he spent his time over in Dick’s mansion, just to escape those disapproving eyes.

There is only one part of his childhood that brings Nixon any joy. It’s also his biggest secret. His brother.

Adopted off the streets after a young Lewis of four years had dragged him in out of the rain like one would a cat. His mother had told him, in one of their rare talking moments, that he’d been so confused about why the boy didn’t have enough money to eat that he’d personally sworn to steal food out of the pantry to feed him for the rest of his life if he had too. After a few months, the young street orphan had his own room inside their rich city house, and was considered part of the family. Well, Lewis considered him as one of the family.

But he was a dirty secret, hidden out of view at parties, no official paperwork for people to track him down, no school attendance. Lew had been pinched by overly long fake nails into learning not to question their reasons for doing this, and was told to merely be content he’d saved a life. And being the young fool he had been, he’d accepted this.

Together in their younger years, they slayed pirates in the streams in the countryside, raced through the meadows, with his brother always managing to get ahead. With this other boy of large green eyes and a daring smile, he learnt to be bossy and get what he demanded, without having to call upon his parents help. He’d had someone to whom he could recite his poems, then essays, then finally his thesis. On his brother’s sixteenth birthday, he brought a beautiful new watch of the finest make and tightened it around his brother’s wrist.

But whilst he’d grown up in a bubble of happiness and wealth, his brother had changed from being the grateful orphan into a teenager who was too bright for his own good. He’d started questioning about his rule of not showing himself in company of guests, about why he couldn’t have friends like the ones Lewis and his sister brought home. He asked why he couldn’t go out and buy Lewis a watch in return. He wanted to go outside and run through the city he’d heard so much about. He proved himself to be competent enough to join the family business by acing his grades, caged away in the cell that Lew’s parents called his bedroom. But still they refused all his asks, to Lewis’s and his brother’s displeasure, keeping him locked up until they left for their annual summer holiday, the one time of the year his adopted brother was allowed out without shame. That summer, when they were both 18 years of age and filled with cocky pride, Lewis’s brother trained like he was preparing for the Olympics as Lew slunk further into the depth of alcohol and tobacco. His brother ran around the fields all day and lifted weights in the afternoon as Nixon slept in bed. He swam at the weekends and ate second, even third helpings at meal times while Lew partied with rich girls who battered their too long lashes at him. They slowly grew distant from each other, up until the point where his brother cut off all the conversations Nixon, or anybody, tried to engage with him.

At the end of four mouths, when they had packed up the car and were ready to head back to New York, his brother couldn’t be found. He’d left everything behind, everything except the watch.

-

Nixon pulls up in front of a fancy dance club, the White Dame, and hands his keys over to the doorman. He strides up to the bouncer who takes one look at him with his red waistcoat and cufflinks before swinging the door open. Being in a Family literally opens doors.

He heads through the twirling bodies, and shoots the bar a longing glance before sighing and searching the crowd. He’s here on business. Family business.

His brother has never openly contacted him through the years, and though Lewis had originally worried about his brother, he found him within a few months, back in New York. He’s discreetly opened doors for him; ensuring he got his degree, making sure he has enough money for a bed and food in his apartment.  He even got the boy a place in a Family, even though he hadn’t involved in the mafia at the time. He’d say he’s opened doors for his brother, but really he’s merely unlocked them and his brother has been smart enough to follow through and open them, charging into the adjoining room.

His heart stops as he catches sight of him, leaning back in a booth with two ladies practically on his lap, playing with his white suit jacket. Living up to his gangster reputation. A reputation that’s grown considerably in recent months after he became a made man and nicely played the rumours surrounding him to his advantage. Nixon likes to think he should get credit for teaching him that trick. It’s the first time they’ve been within 200 metres of each other since Sink’s funeral, where they’d avoided each other’s gazes with a natural ease that comes only with practice. He steps forward and clears his throat, the mobster throwing him a quizzical glance. After a moment of silence, both of them trying to judge how to other will react, he shoos the girls away and pushes out a stool for Nixon with a sly grin, passing over a glass of champagne that one of the girl’s had left behind.

“Oh brother, how I’ve missed you!”

Nixon sits and leans across to take the offered drink, noticing the expensive watch on the muscular arm.

“Honestly Speirs, I’ve barely noticed your absence.”

His adopted brother shoots him a mischievous grin in return.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any parts seem rushed or unclear, please, please tell me! I may rewrite Nixon's bit at the end, but currently i'm fed up with it and just want to move on to the next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are back to the fluff! With mob undertones :D So looking forward to writting the battle scene next chapter!
> 
> Have some Mumford and Sons lyrics, because their whole album 'Sigh no More' suits this story: (I'll make a fanmix :D) 
> 
> You’ve got blood on your hands  
> And I know it’s mine  
> I just need more time  
> So get off your low and let’s dance like we used to  
> But there’s a light in the distance  
> Waiting for me, I will wait for you  
> So get off your low, and let’s kiss like we used to  
> \- Unfinished business

"Don't try to open your eyes, darling," is the first thing he hears.

Webster does, and the light is so searing it sparks a chemical reaction that starts with the full force of a migraine and ends with him getting turned on his side as he throws up all over himself, all over the floor next to his face, all over someone's shoes.

"There's that lovely, obedient boy I adore," Joe says dryly, but he has a wet towel and he cleans Webster up, puts a hand over Webster's eyes to protect him from the light, and hushes, "Don't worry — I'm here now."

Webster opens his eyes to Joe's soft-eyed stare, his hand on Webster’s face, as he perches on one end of Webster’s sofa in Joe’s house, his body tilted away from Webster, keeping their secrets in between. His voice is hoarse when he says, "Morning."

"It's seven a.m., Toye just left for work," Joe falters, his words just as raspy.

"So that was real, then?"

As Webster stretches, it takes Joe longer to answer, the first syllable coming out like a long hum instead, a shade deeper than before. "Yes — real."

Webster tries to resist being sick again. "Then that entire night happened, even the bit with the German body."

"Sadly, yes," Joe reports and Webster tries to wrap his brain around that, but it’s still muzzy with sleep. He's loose, happy, too tired to be anything but. He knows he should be angry right about now, but the look Joe’s giving him is like a kicked puppy. And you never kick a man once he’s down.

"And yet," Joe says, sounding wondering, "you're here."

"You invited me in, love," Webster mumbles, closing his eyes again and turning his face into the pillow. He feels like he hasn't slept for days, and between the heavy weight of the comforter and the smell of Joe's cigarettes and aftershave he thinks he could probably just drowse in the easy comfort of this for days. "Of course I'm here."

Joe accepts that like it’s a logical answer and shifts off the sofa to put the coffee machine on, Webster covering his head at the noise that sounds like a wave echoing around a cave, but his eyes blearily track Joe’s movements around the room. He'd expected a smart comment, a filthy innuendo, when the word love had slipped of his tongue, but Joe just says in a hush,

“Black, no sugar and cream right?”

When did Joe learn how he takes his coffee? He mumbles a sound that sounds vaguely affirmative and tries to sit up. At some point in the night, someone has thrown a blanket around him and he’s fairly positive it had been Toye and not Liebgott. Liebgott would have wrapped himself around him, he was fairly certain.

 _Woar, where did that come from_? He’s rubbing his eyes when Joe slips back into the room with two cups of coffee, one of which he places on the full coffee table in front of Web, who is currently trying to remember to breath calmly through his nose.

He’d come out to Liebgott. Liebgott who is also gay. Liebgott who is currently the only person in the world who Webster has told about being gay. Liebgott who had had him backed up against a tree last night, his breathing raspy as he licked under his ear. Liebgott who Webster would have gladly handed himself over to on a silver platter if he asked. Liebgott who he had turned down, even though his pants had been slightly too tight after Liebgott had nuzzled along his neck. Liebgott who had left his jaw with stubble rash that Webster could feel under his fingers.

 All of a sudden the walls are too close and the ceiling feels like it’s resting on his head. And Webster doesn’t think it’s because of the hang over. He feels caged, the colors too bright and the noise coming from the kettle too loud. Joe’s watching him calmly; his eyes way too clear after drinking that amount of alcohol last night, -Webster takes a moment to be jealous, he’s sure his eyes are rimmed bright red by now- watching Webster stroke his jaw line, panic in his eyes.

“I guess you remember then.”

Joe sounds troubled, beaten, and Webster’s certain that if he hasn’t using both hands to grip his cup, his hands would be open with despair. Half of Webster wants to go over there, remove the cup of coffee from Joe’s hands and show him how much he doesn’t regret his actions last night. It’s a shame that the other half of him wins over and makes him bolt. He spares Liebgott an apologetic glance as he slides across the floor and shoves his feet into his shoes, but the guy hasn’t moved, though one corner of his mouth has turned down, and he’s watching Webster without taking notice of any of his actions. He flicks out a hand towards Webster’s keys in the bowl near the door without comment, his other hand running across his lips as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

No matter how much he lives up to the neglected emotionally child stereotype, underneath his waistcoats, Webster really doesn't have much in the way of romantic inclinations. Webster is practical and boring and he is exactly what he looks: competent and efficient. It's never bothered him, really, but it also leaves him wholly unprepared for the swelling ache in his chest, like the afterimage of a bruise, when he looks at Joe.

“If you are sick of me, tell me, I can take it. Instead of retreating to your batcave every night.”  Joe’s words are world weary and he sounds twice his age, and they get him a frown and if Joe squints, it could be a pout from Webster.

Webster attempts to pull on his jacket and grabs his keys. He wavers with his hand on the doorknob, only one arm in the jacket, looking dishevelled. He throws his hands into the air, hoping Liebgott will understand that Webster just can’t deal with any of this right now.

“I’m sorry, I need… I need time to think. About last night. About us. About everything.”

He shuts the door before Joe can reply and before Webster can catch another glimpse of Joe’s heartbroken face.

-

 _Christ_ is the only thing that circles around and around Webster’s head as he rides back into Able, steering through the streets towards his flat. He should have stayed. But he risked saying something stupid, something wrong, whilst he was still half asleep and panicking out of his mind. He starts asking himself: which is worst? Saying something and wishing you hadn’t or saying nothing and wishing you had? He feels like he’s has betrayed Liebgott and love is whatever you can still betray. Love? Already? No, not yet. He can feel it building in his limbs, starting to cloud his judgement. He can feel it when his heart beats too fast in Joe’s presence. How he aches for a simple touch, how he puts himself in positions where Joe barely has to lift his arm in order to be touching Webster.  He’s never been in love, or been on the receiving end. He’d been scared to love; everyone he knew before lived dangerous lives and would end up hurt. But Easy Family is like a security blanket. He can feel his heart growing used to its new home; adapting into loving whatever Easy has to spare it, and he drinks it all in, like a thirsty man would an oasis in the desert. _Every kiss is a cursive line, every touch is a redefining phrase. He surrenders who he’d been for who they want, for nothing makes him stronger than Joe’s fragile heart._ __

More and more of the evening has returned to Webster and he’s proud of barely battering an eyelid when he’d seen the dead body. Over the years, he’s learnt that a body goes limp in less than a minute, that the air will start to smell in about two hours, that the body temperature of a dead body drops by 1.5 degrees per hour, so it takes about twelve for it to go stiff. That the act of pulling the trigger, so gentle, so elegant, requires only three muscles: Flexor Digitorum Profundus, Flexor Digitorum Superficialis and the Palmar Interosseous. He’s learnt that it’s only when you’re no longer afraid that you begin to live. He’s learnt not to bring his friends into the equation to help clean up a dead body, just in case he gets caught. He doesn’t want to drag anyone down with him. His gang had learnt to offer him the same level of respect. He’s learnt that memories can be worse than nightmares, because at least you can wake up from nightmares. And he’s learnt that life goes on and his dreams aren’t all shattered yet. And as of recently, as long as he can dream, he’ll dream of Liebgott.

 

He’s less proud of the fact he threw a bottle into a street in the middle of New York, but in retrospect, that is a minor detail of the evening. Now he’s got this...thing going with Joe, and he can’t make head or tails of it and that scares him shitless. He doesn’t know how to go any further. He doesn’t know if he wants to go any further. He’s been dancing around the edge of something with Liebgott for more than a week now. And now he’s scared because Joe’s asking him to lead, and he can’t remember any of the steps.

He parks his bike out front of his small but tidy apartment, barely more than a room, and makes his way indoors. He smiles nicely at his mad old neighbour, who shoots him a filthy look and disappears inside of her room. He halts for a second, surprise written across his face. She may be mad, but she’s always been nice to him. He crosses paths with a father and his young child as he climbs the stairs, and to his embarrassment, the father brings the girl close to him with a firm hand and shoots Webster a warning glare. Webster frowns and raises his hands in the air, twisting to watch them hurry downwards. Something’s off, even if Able had turned their back to Webster and named him a traitor, people he’s known all his life wouldn’t be acting like this. He runs down the corridor and stands rooted to the spot a few meters from his door.

His front door is hanging on its hinges, the wood splintered from where someone has attacked it with an axe. On the walls surrounding it, the old cream wallpaper has been shredded to reveal the plaster boards behind, forming words.

Gangster. Traitor. Criminal. Delinquent. Murderer. Pervert. Paedophile. Gay.

“Shit” Webster fumes, storming forwards to the door. He stops before putting his hand on the door knob at the last second. He catches sight of it and blanches. It’s dripping with blood.

“Fuck!” His yell echoes down the now empty corridor, bouncing around the corner, running away from him, just like everything else in his life. He kicks open his door with his bike boots, and steps into the room, glass breaking underneath, fearing the worst.

But luckily, there’s no dead body hanging from the lampshade, or drowned in the bath. All of his furniture has been overturned and hacked up by the axe and his clothes have been thrown out of the wardrobe, half of them forming a makeshift escape rope attached to his bed and slung out of the window. His desk has been rummaged through, his papers and all of his hard work torn up and most of his books have been set alight in oven. He turns around in the middle of the chaos, cataloguing every detail. Pressing his fingers to his tear ducts, he goes over to the paperwork, and rummages around, finding the deed to the flat untouched. Sighing with relief, he places it on top of the desk, and heads to the bedroom.

He drags out his old green suitcase and starts salvaging any wearable clothes out of the mess, reeling in the rope.  He doesn’t know why he’s filling the suitcase, or why he’s retrieved the deed, but he knows one thing, he can’t stay here. The signs of Able’s men being here are clear of anyone to see, mostly thanks to the correct spelling of paedophile, and he counts himself luckily that Joe probably saved his live last night by calling out him to the bar to pick him up. The suitcase filled, he drags it into the room to find he has a visitor. Scowling at the short man once he sees his face, he hands over the deed.

“You can have this. And a thousand pounds for the destruction costs. No more. Any complaints and I half the sum.”

His landlord opens his mouths and closes it again, staring at Webster with interest. Webster doesn’t know when he gained the confidence to be able to shut a man up like he just did, but he has a feeling it comes from finally coming out of the closet, not being rejected, having a Family to back him up for once in his life and the sense of relief of having a reason to leave this stick in the mud shit apartment.

He slaps the shorter man on the back and leaves the apartment, his suitcase behind him. Dragging it down the stairs, he glares at the mad old hag who has once again stuck her nose out. His tolerance for everyone in this place just plummeted through the basement.

“Look at you lot. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing! You hate me for I represent all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

Everything has to end at some point. Otherwise nothing would ever get started. And he’s had a good run with this flat, but it’s time to move on. Maybe he’ll find a place over the river, in Easy territory.

He growls as he brushes past the father in the street and stashes his suitcase behind some bins he knows will be collected at the end of the month; he’ll come by in a car to pick them up rather than trying to attach it to the back of his bike. He has little doubt he may have to do a runner at any moment. He’s standing there, checking that his suitcase is hidden well enough when he sees himself in the corner shop window. Not his reflection, an actual mug shot of himself. With a price underneath for his death. He storms over and jabs a finger against the black and white photo of himself. It is a few years old, from the last time he’d ended up in jail after one of the gang’s B&E jobs had gone sour.  Hall’s number is written on the bottom. His crimes committed are betrayal and murderer.  

He steps back a few paces, his heart beating against his rib cage. Someone has actually noticed him enough to want him dead. And now his face is hanging up on a wanted poster alongside Easy’s other enforcers, above a few of Item’s, for the world to see. He had being making a name for himself as a respected journalist, but it appears that line of work will be forever shut to him. The only way forward for him is as a gangster. Until he becomes a Soldier, he’ll have to watch his back, but once he gets the official nod, these posters will be taken down within a day. It’s not like being a murderer is a serious thing in New York, everyone practically is in these dark times. And he hasn’t really betrayed anyone that he cares about. Apart from Joe, but that’s a whole other story.

Standing in the middle of Able with his own wanted poster in front of him probably isn’t the smartest idea in the world, so he decides to go do something even more stupid. Leaving his motorbike, he detaches his old orange push bike from the tree outside his old flat and checks the tires. Still good to go. Hoping on, he gently peddles through the streets, his hat pulled down over his head, smelling of Joe’s shampoo from last night. Joe’s shampoo smells of cactus and alcohol. Well, he doesn’t think the shampoo smells of alcohol, but the smell of Joe’s drinking is there.

Eventually, he arrives at his usual market, the stalls humming with movements as children beg their mothers to buy them some treats, fathers look for a good deal for the family’s meals and the elderly gossip with the sellers.

He pushes his bike along the same path he’s been traveling down since he was nine, blending in with the crowd who gradually make room for him. He stops to buy a bottle of wine at an empty stool and is completely ignored by the owner, a senior woman with her nose stuck up in the air. Smirking to himself because he’d expected it, he moves along to the fruit sellers, standing in the queue for a few minutes until it’s his turn. He gives his order to the young boy who hasn’t even bothered to look up. The boy fills the bag with oranges and lifts his head to see Webster there, grinning, waiting for his reaction. Shuddering to a stop, the boy pauses for a moment before putting the bag down and calmly moves on to the customers behind Webster, who shoot Webster a dirty look for wasting their time. He shrugs at them, the shit eating grin refusing to leave his face. He grabs an apple and because the boy is so busy ignoring him to notice, manages to walk away to his bike with it. He takes a few bites, breaking the skin with his teeth and swings a leg over his bicycle and goes along the market stalls, steering one handed, a trick he’d learnt over the years. He keeps telling himself that seeing all his old friends and acquaintances abandoning him isn’t hurtful, that he’s unaffected, but his heartbeats are growing further and further apart. He’s nearly at the end when he spots his old boss in the same spot he’s occupied all his life. He’d worked for the guy for two years, carrying the boxes from the truck to the stall, dealing with the customers and refilling the man’s morning glass of wine. He stops and nods politely, and to his surprise, the old guy lifts his glass in greeting and throws a wink. As much as he wishes to go over, he doesn’t want to get the old guy in trouble for dealing with him. Reaching the end of the strip, he starts whistling to himself, a merry little tune that he hopes will cheer him up. As he cycles past, two large soldiers in blue catch sight of him and start pointing.

“Ah shit.” He’d forgotten there are always two guards at the market, hassling for money of the middle classes. Seeing them reach for their guns, he throws his apple core at them, which they duck to avoid, thinking it’s a grenade and he bends over low over his handlebars and takes off at lightning speed, his knees nearly hitting the steering bar, as he twists around the backstreets to his motorbike. Throwing a look over his shoulder, he’s pleased to see the men were obviously more muscle than stamina as they’ve fallen far behind. Abandoning his childhood bike in the alley, he fishes out his keys from his leather jacket, kicks the bike to life and takes off, aiming towards the bridge and Easy’s territory.

 

-

 

“Glad you could make it Webster, I’m afraid I couldn’t get a hold of you on your phone.”

“Yeah, best not use that number again.”

His voice is harsh and rough but Webster figures he has an excuse as he steps around Bill and Bull into the Lucky Star. Their words catching up with him, he turns back around.

“Why were you trying to get a hold of me?”

“Everyone’s meeting here tonight at Nixon’s request. Something big is going down.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone, all the enforcers included.”

Webster’s eyebrows rise as he heads into the bar, sinking into one of the empty booths, his head resting against the thick wallpaper. Hidden in the semi darkness, he watches the Family men turn up over the course of the afternoon and go to sit down at the back table. He spies Roe entering with Heffron, a frown on his heavy Cajun features. Buck appears with Toye, whose arm is gripping his elbow. Cobb yells at some of the enforcers for being too loud as he swings by.  Muck and Luz appear with serious faces that send chills down Webster spine. And Liebgott wanders in, still looking half asleep, his eyes searching the bar. Webster hopes it’s for him, but he remains hidden in his obscure hiding spot, his eyes wandering across Joe’s face, looking for any sign of discomfort, sadness, anything to prove he’d been affected by this morning. But Joe just turns his chair backwards and starts murmuring to Toye, Buck listening in.

 

At about quarter past six, Dike wanders in and stands up on the center round table and claps his hands. Silence falls immediately- well the enforcers shut up and the made men finally calm down once Lipton whistles them into order- and people edge closer to hear. It’s the first time Webster’s ever been able to truly notice the Underboss. He finds that the boys’ descriptions of the thick skulled man are correct. He has a way of distancing himself from the men like an Underboss should, but he’s too distant. Webster hasn’t seen him once in the Lucky Star. And a few nights ago, he’d lost any respect he may have had when he’d shouted at Roe, and Roe had quickly and calmly brought him down a beg, his face twisted into a surprising scary snarl that made you feel disappointed for not living up to his expectations.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid I’m the one who is going to have to brief you about tomorrow’s plans as Nixon is unavailable.”

Webster’s eyebrows rise but this must be a common thing as no one else even bats an eyelid.

“Tomorrow, at 0800, we will prepare to go to war.  I hope everyone said their goodbyes to their loved ones, made out a will and prayed to whatever god you believe in. We’re getting the attack plan tomorrow, when Nixon and Dick turn up. I can’t even tell you who we are going to attack, to ensure the word doesn’t get out.”

There’s silence for a while as everyone breathes in or takes a deep swig of their drink. The enforcers look worried but up at the Family’s table, Luz is already taking bets on who they will be up against.

“Why the hell are we going to war? We’ve living the good life right now!”

A forgettable face yells in the crowd and Dike pulls at his lower lip.

“Dick’s orders. We’re to kill a drug runner, a drug runner who the Family in question will try to avenge. So we’re going to cut them to the chase and take them out. No one leaves the compound tonight, and all phone calls will be monitored.” Dike leaps off the table, pushing a chair over, as people start grumbling. Webster just sighs and closes his eyes. He hears a few of the made men mock Norman with a few leers about his speech giving skills under their breath before Buck calms them down.

 The experienced men sit around at the lucky star, awaiting yet another day of gunfire. But for those who have never been, Webster is sure they thought of little else.

-

Webster leans back in one of the booths, staring out through the open bar door. The bar is weirdly light for an evening down at the pub, as all the windows have been thrown open at the back and at the front, the moonlight giving everyone dark blue coloring. He wipes the image of last night’s bar from his mind, seeing red stains on the floor. Around him, the other enforcers form little pockets of men, making sure they have someone to watch their back in the firefight tomorrow. Webster ignores all of them, ignores the fact that he’s got a splitting headache, ignores the fact that he’s got no one to watch his back tomorrow, ignores the fact he’s homeless and wanted dead and he could easily be chucked into the river with lead attached to his feet by this time tomorrow if things go badly. He doesn’t like to discourage the men, but it’s going to be a tough fight. The only thing they have in their favor is the element of surprise. They’ll be trying to take down a family, in their own compound that none of them knows anything about, whilst that Family’s men have the advantage of knowing every nook and cranny, not to mention back up. They haven’t heard the battle plans yet, but Webster prays to god that Nixon has been as cunning as he usually is, otherwise this ship will sink before the battle even gets underway. 

He sighs and catches sight of Joe sitting at the back of the bar at the long table, the windows open behind him, limned by the moon, watching Webster with a soft and terribly, meltingly intimate look.

Webster turns away from the gaze. He has no right to Liebgott, he’d ran out on the man earlier, despite Joe’s gentle and calming touch. He’s about to make himself comfy in the hope of getting some shuteye when Buck stops in front of Webster’s table, his arms filled with a huge over loaded tray of drinks.

“Help me with these, Web.”

Webster narrows his eyes, seeing straight through Compton’s trick, but gives in anyway, picking up a few of the glasses and following the blond Capo to the rectangular table, the other enforcers shooting him filthy glares as he follows Buck’s form through the small groups. The Family men look up and cheer as they approach, in part for Webster’s presence, but mostly at the sight of the booze.

“Don’t get over excited guys, you get two glasses all evening, I’m not having any of you hung over tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry Lip, we won’t be hung over, we’ll still be drunk.” Reasons Skip as he grabs some glasses and pulls them towards himself. Lipton watches him frowning but sighs and drags out a chair for Webster, the same spot he’d turned down last week.

“Sit.”

It’s not a question this time, it’s an order. One that Webster is happy to oblige, ignoring the open mouthed gasps he hears behind him from the enforcers, some of which have been waiting for a seat at this very table for years.

 As the men joke and cheer, talking about everything except tomorrow, Webster finally meets Joe’s gaze, with a curiously divorced sense of dread against the way he can't stop smiling.

“Have a good day Web?”

“You could say that. Got shot at, thrown out of my ripped up house, and lost all my old contacts. Just a normal day in my life.”

The table quietens down at Webster words, as Webster ignores them, tracing the rim of his glasses with his finger, a shallow grin still plastered on his face.

 “Shit, guess they really were out to get you.”

The exclamation comes from Joe and everyone around the table nods in agreement. It appears everyone is aware of Able’s hard glares outside of the church, and Webster pinpoints Luz as the one who had spread the word.

“Is now a bad time to say I told you so?”

“It’s generally a bad time so go ahead.”

“I told you so.” He feels childish as soon as it leaves his mouth, a quiet smile following it. Everyone around the table eases up a bit and leaves the conversation, picking up where they’d left off as Joe shoots him a sly smile. A dagger of guilt hits him in the gut and he forces down a gulp of his drink to hide his pained expression.

 “So you need a place to stay. You can crash with us Web, like last night. Can’t he Joe?” Toye looks completely innocent, his eyes wide and honest, oblivious to Webster and Joe’s new turn in their relationship and how well he’d dealt with waking up in their apartment his morning. Bill seems a bit more aware, and discreetly hits Toye over the head when Liebgott isn’t watching, raising his eyebrows. Toye just shrugs at him, confused, as Buck chuckles softly from Webster’s left. The whole set up is ridiculous and Webster gives Toye a warm small, hoping he understands that web isn’t annoyed.

“Of course Webster. We’ll see about getting up an extra bed to slot in somewhere.”

To Joe’s credit, he only hesitated a second too long before replying.

“I am capable of sleeping on the sofa.” Webster rolls his eyes, as Buck chuckles.

“Then sleep on the sofa, Web. I ain’t your mother.”

The boys laugh lightly; some mocking Liebgott by calling him the dad instead, others saying the mother role is still a tie break between Webster and Lipton, who shoots him a fond smile. Webster decides there that he’ll never be as good a mother to them as Lipton is, he’ll never be able to put up with their all madness without noticing the details like the Capo does.

“Thanks Joe.” He addresses it to both of them and they nod at him, Toye giving him a mock salute.

-

 

At the end of the night when everyone’s had three beers, to Lipton tight lipped concern, instead of staggering to his bike or hanging out with the other enforcer’s in the bar, Webster turns down the road and follows the two Joes to their apartment. Entering, Toye disappears immediately into the bathroom and Liebgott to his room. Webster looks around the lounge, taking it in properly this time around.

There are playboy magazines, thankfully closed, chucked under the sofa, cans of beer filling the corners. There’s a stack of newspapers, with a stack of pinups underneath, all of women with too large boobs and fake guns in suggestive poses. Ha, like either of the Joe’s would actually keep those around; as demonstrated by how out in the open they are, untouched under stacks of other papers. The most used things seem to be the kitchen, which is spotless, and the coffee table, filled without twenty mugs that they’ve forgotten to wash up. Webster can even see his own cup, still untouched from this morning, on one end. There’s a mostly empty bookshelf and an untidy desk with an old phone on it, various pens scattered around and scribbles written on the back of important papers.  Then there’s the corridor separating the two bedrooms and the toilet. Toye leaves the bathroom and Liebgott nips in the moment he’s done. Toye waves a hand at Webster, not even bothering to turn around.

“Night.”

Webster sits down, and removes his shoes, jacket and waistcoat, slipping his pocket watch into its pocket, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Eventually Liebgott leaves the bathroom, and stumbles back into his room, without acknowledging Webster, leaving him with the distinct impression Joe’s already forgotten he’s here. He slips into the bathroom that’s freezing cold thanks to the open window and slashes his face a few times, his bare toes turns white on the cold stone floor. He rinses his mouth, thinking that he needs to buy himself a toothbrush and takes a quick leak before bed. He exits the room to find Liebgott has brought out a blanket for him and is sitting in the same spot as this morning, on the arm rest of the other sofa. Webster thanks him and lies down straight away, his fatigue catching up with him, pulling him into the comfort of the fabric. He ignores the thoughts of his ruined apartment and fixes his gaze upon Liebgott who appears to be fighting with himself, his hands twisting around and around. Webster hasn’t said he’s sorry about this morning, and he doesn’t intend too, but seeing his old friends abandon him like that, his view of the world has shifted, and to his displeasure, Joe has become the center of it.

“I don’t want you to be my friend Webster.”

Joe seems to have reached a conclusion and is looking at Webster’s hands. It pierces the air though it’s hissed quietly enough that only Webster hears it. It's petty and cruel, a verbal slap to the face designed to hurt, and oh God, does it ever

“Why?” His voice is barely more than a whisper, scared of what Joe’s about to say, one half of his face feeling red and stinging from the verbal slap.

“Because if you’re my friend and I lose you tomorrow, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Webster blinks and sits up, fully alert now but Joe’s already standing up and leaving the room.

"Go to sleep, Mr.Webster," Joe says, trying to keep his tone flat but a touch of affection leaks in at the end as he walks to his bedroom, and flips out the light. Webster lies there panting in the dark, wondering what he should have said, but nothing comes to mind. Part of him is grateful Joe hadn’t been expecting an answer, as he would have been disappointed by Webster’s current lack of words, despite his fancy degree that he’d left in pieces in his old flat. He settles into the too small sofa, running his hands through his hair. On the bookshelf, his heart shudders as he recognizes one of the poets: Walt Whiteman, To A Stranger.

 

_I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,_

_I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,_

_I am to see to it that I do not lose you._

Ironic that a poem written over an hundred years ago can resume his current situation. His Joe Liebgott situation.

_When had Joe stolen his heart?_ __

He smirks miserably into the dark.

 

_Liebgott never stole it…Webster handed it over long ago._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh No More Fanmix (just if you know the band, I spent all of my trip in Rome listening to this album on repeat)
> 
> Sigh No More - Winters/Nixon  
> The Cave - Doc Roe (/Heffron)  
> Winter Winds - Winters/Nixon  
> Roll Away Your Stone - Speirs/Lipton  
> White Blank Page - Speirs/Lipton; Winters/Nixon; Liebgott/Webster, all of them it's just a great song  
> I Gave You All - Winters(/Nixon)  
> Little Lion Man - Webster/Liebgott  
> Timshel - The whole Family (and Speirs mostly)  
> Thistle and Weeds - Liebgott/Webster  
> Awake My Soul- Liebgott to Webster, Speirs to Webster  
> Dust Bowl Dance - Speirs/Nixon (I love this song, it's my favourite) And it's more about their childhood than a ship  
> After The Storm - Liebgott/Webster, Speirs/Lipton, Winters/Nixon


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Webster and Liebgott are open about their affections for each other, Winters and Nixon share a hug and Lipton meets a tall dark gangster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written out all of these notes and lost them so now I'll give you the short version.
> 
> One, I'm sorry about the delay. Blame holidays, sickness and my friends. But to make up for this, have a 20'000 word chapter, four times as long as usual! This is full of action, with less fluff than usual, but I'll make up for that next chapter, which should be up in a much shorter about of time.
> 
> Two, the perfect song for this chapter is Violet Hill by Coldplay. There's a video on youtube that gives me all the Band of brothers feels here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKMqPORqrpg&list=PL11148144AA907936&index=28&feature=plpp_video
> 
> Three, there are a hundred and one references in here ranging from the Pirates of the Carribean, all the way to Inception and, as always, Sherlock.
> 
> Four, I have pulled scenes from every battle in the series, try to find them all. But as a visual aid, this is more like Carentan and Operation Market Garden than D-Day. 
> 
> Four, the lovely fireswaps made me my first fanmix :O Find it here :http://fireswamps.tumblr.com/post/30545353426/darling-au-mob-fanmix-volume-i-and-when-he  
> Thank you Darling x
> 
> So now, I recommend curling up in bed, with a cup of tea and relaxing whilst readin my chapter :)

Here's a rough visual aide: 

 

I-                Preparing to go to war

 

The sun rises over the sleepy Easy compound the next morning to find the car park outside of Nixon Nitration’s Works full. On a usual day the place is filled with rundown wrecks and bummers litter the empty car parking spots. But today, the factory has stopped all production and shiny fast cars fill the tarmac.

Here and there, the black plain is punctuated by pairs of men, dressed in red, as they sneak in a cigarette or go stretch their legs in the park behind them.

Amongst this group of enforcers and made men, a sleek dark red car pulls up in front of Winters house. An upstairs curtain twitches as Nixon steps out of the expensive car, returning from his two day disappearance.

No one had bothered looking for him; they had seen him leave two nights ago on the fateful night when Joe Liebgott had killed a bartender, and had all presumed he was off organising things ready for the upcoming war. His wife had invited around her lover. His dog had spent his time sleeping or eating, not even barking when Mrs Nixon’s newest lover of the week had turned up. No one had phoned to arrange any business meetings. Winters wife hadn’t popped around with some homemade pancakes. The only person who had really noticed Lew’s absence was the tall lithe ginger haired man who lived across the car parking lot.

On this particular morning, Richard Winters is standing at his upstairs window, slowly watching enforcers and made men gather in a cluster in front of his house, milling around like red ants. There’s more than a hundred out there, and he owes his life to every single one of them. And less than half will return home to their wives and partners this evening.

 

There’s a knock at the door and he turns around and smiles at his wife. Petite with matching dimples, she looks every inch of a perfect housewife. She enters with a smile on her lips and a plate of pancakes in her hands. He strokes a stray piece of her hair and settles himself down at his desk, breathing in the smell of apple syrup poured over them.

“Thanks honey.”

She bends down and kisses him softly on the cheek.

“My pleasure.”

He smiles at her and relaxes into the comfort of this familiar routine, cutting into his pancakes and popping a few mouthfuls in. She runs her hands through his hair a few times, before going over to the window and watching the red shapes move around on the ground.

“Where’s Nixon?”

“No idea.”

His reply comes in between mouthfuls, when he takes a swig from his orange juice. His wife gives him a sad smile, his own worry about Nixon reflected in her eyes. 

“You’ll take care today won’t you Rich?”

“I always do.”

She goes over and sits on the desk next to him, watching him eat her home baked breakfast. He pauses half way through the too large stack and lays down his knife and fork, lacing his fingers together as he looks up at her.

“I’ll be at the back of the fight. I’ll only enter the area once the warehouse has been secured. Then I’m staying out of harm’s way with Nixon and Shifty. Well that’s the plan, if Nixon turns up in time; we’re just waiting for him.”

“He’ll turn up, he always does.”

There’s a cheer outside and their front door thuds shut below them. Winters lets a dry laugh escape his throat, somehow disguising his relief to hear the familiar sound.

“Speak of the devil.”

“And he will appear.”

His wife smiles kindly and gives him one last kiss on the forehead before holding the door open for Nixon as he bounces up the stairs, his hair a mess and still wearing two day old clothes.

 

“Nixon.”

Is all Winters offers in way of greeting and the man merely kisses Winters’s departing wife on the cheek, before settling down opposite him on the other side of the desk. As soon as the door catches on the latch, Dick hands over the last half of his meal. Nixon tucks in straight away, stuffing the pancakes in like he hasn’t eaten for days. Which is extremely possible.

“Hmm these are good.”

“They always are.”

“God bless Christine.”

They both smile at each other, thinking about Dick’s wife. There’s no one quite like her. He’d married her a few years ago, when he’d been promoted to Underboss. It is a common understanding in the Mafia world that a man of his standing has to marry a respectable woman. And a woman of Christine’s uptight background has to marry a strong man. They’d known each other since they were children, running around stealing apples off neighbours’ trees, knew each other inside out and had dated through high school.

But Winters never wanted more than to give her more than a chaste kiss, and she never asked him for more than that. It was in the senior year when they were talking about their plans for university when they finally figured out why. Winters didn’t want to feel the touch of a woman’s warmth and Christine longed for a softer pair of lips under her own. To their amusement, they found out they were both gay, and had been holding on to the relationship for the sake of not ruining their friendship.

They mutually separated, each keeping the others secret and remaining in contact through the years. Christine spent her university years having flings left, right and centre, whilst Winters never attempted to impose himself on anyone else. She had brought him round to her house at Christmases under the pretence of being her boyfriend, and he’d always claimed her first dance at formal balls.

 

When the time arose that Winters needed to find himself a wife, Christine claimed the spot. He hadn’t asked her for her hand in marriage, he’d merely asked if she knew a few women available, as most women his age were married and had children in their neighbourhood. But she’d asked him to marry her instead, under the condition that they could both still go out and pursue other relationships. Christine had never wanted to marry a single person, to be tied down with one lover, and Dick wished for nothing more than to have someone he could take care of.

Together they formed the perfect couple to any outsider’s point of view, and whilst they slept in the same bed, nothing had ever progressed past the sweet kisses of their childhood.

When Nixon had started taking up a huge part in Winters’s life, he, with Christine’s blessing, had told the man about his fake relationship and the man had merely laughed and said he wished he had the same.

Nixon’s wife is a cruel cold woman from the upper levels of society, with the perfect posture, heavy makeup and spicy perfume. Christine had extended the hand of friendship a few times to the cold woman, Jessica, but she’d turned down all offers of eating with them on certain nights and refused to pop over to the weekly Easy Family’s wives meeting every Wednesday. She spent Christmas with her parents, dragging Nixon along, and then released him in time for him to come over to Winters’s for New Year. Christine was already planning on saving Nixon from Jessica’s clutches this year for Christmas, but in truth, Nixon isn’t the one they need to convince.

 

Winters watches Nixon gulf down the last of the pancakes, which he knew Christine had secretly made for Nix anyway. When Nixon finishes, he rises and leaves the room without a word. He reappears a few moments later out of Dick’s bedroom with an unopened bottle in hand.

 **“** I don’t know why I’m still doing this.” Nixon confesses as he pours himself a drink, settling back down on the other side of the desk.  
 **“** What, drinking?” Winters is already smiling at his mistake.  
 **“** No, storing it in your house. I’m a consiligere, for Christ sake.” Lewis is now stretching his legs out and placing them on the desk, his ankles bare.    
 **“** Well, why don’t you just give it up?” Dick leans back and out of Nixon’s personal space. He needs to keep his head clear today. No rash decisions. Today would not be a good day to stick too close to Nixon.

“Drinking?” Nixon looks horrified for a moment, his eyes wide like he’s never seen Dick before.   
**“** No, hiding it in my house. You’re my consiligere, for Pete’s sake.”  

Together they laugh and Nixon drowns a glass in one, tilting it like he’s been drinking all his life. Which he probably has. As he pours himself another tumbler, Dick snatches the bottle and rams it into his bottom draw, scrunching up a few papers underneath. Lew had startled and his hand had flown through empty air to try and grab it back, but as ever, his reflexes are too slow to catch up with Dick.

Unable to resist anymore, Dick leans forward onto his elbows on the desk, as Lewis huffs and shifts his feet to the floor, before mirroring him, both of them staring at each other over the disarray of papers.

“Where were you last night Nix?”

Winters’s voice is softer, kinder than before. He’s trying to ignore the fact that they are centimeters away from each other and he can feel Nixon’s breath against his eyebrows, but the constant draft is making his stomach warm up and spending shivers down his legs.

“Tipping the odds in our favor.” Nixon offers him his famous look. The I-know-what-is-really-going-on-here-look. But Dick has no idea what’s going on and always finds the Look annoying. Well, he would feel annoyed, if the expression didn’t make Nixon look good, in a cocky, I can handle anything you throw at me way.

“Illegally I presume?” Dick’s trying to ignore the way his whole body is overheating in Nixon’s presence, and fiddles with a pen, not wishing to show how his body is reacting and making Nixon uncomfortable. He leans back a bit, exhaling. _Nixon leans forward._

_“Why are you always so suspicious?”_

_“Should I answer chronologically or alphabetically?”_

_Dick cracks a smile like he already knows he’s won. He’s not sure what he’s won, but from Nixon’s light laugh he knows he’s got an advantage here. Nixon leans back out of his personal space. Dick gets up and moves closer to him, propping himself up on the desk by his side, his legs stretched out completely straight in front of him._

“Has Christine wished you luck?” Nixon asks, screwing up his bottle of whiskey.

“She always does.”

“Good, then let’s go.”

Nixon stands, his hand resting on the crook of Winters’s elbow as they head out of the room, down the stairs and past the sounds of washing up coming from the kitchen. The hand feels protective and intimate and Dick’s fairly sure that Lew has already forgotten it’s there. But Winters can feel nothing else except the light continuous pressure below his elbow. They reach the front door and Nixon wrinkles his nose and Dick, with the heart of a sixteen year old, wants to capture that moment because Nixon looks… cute. And Lewis only ever looks cute when he’s around Dick, and completely relaxed and permits himself to lower his stone hard mask.

“Yes Nix, you smell. You haven’t changed for two days.”

Nixon takes a moment to recollect the dates in his head and nods in shock at how long he’s been gone.

“Who addressed the men last night then?”

“Dike.”

“Oh, I bet they loved that.”

Nixon grins fondly to himself, imagining the scene. Dick straightens his tie and Nix readjusts Dick’s collar, his fingers ghosting over the skin near Dick’s throat. Dick swallows and Nix hesitates, both of them looking down at Lewis’s fingers on Dick’s pristine white collar. It’s moments like this that make life worth living in Dick’s world. Those moments when it’s just the two of them and they are both holding something back, both shimmering just beneath the surface, each wanting to rush forward and both of them holding back.

Dick leans forward and gives Lew’s temple a butterfly kiss. He feels Lew’s breath leave him, blowing around his exposed neck and Lewis’s hand finds his and they press together, fingers fitting in perfectly.

“Promise me you’ll stay safe today Nix.”

“I won’t leave your side.”

Winters hums his satisfaction into Nix’s hair and Lewis boldly pulls him in for a hug. Nixon relaxes instantly in his arms and Winters tries his best to remain rigid and upright so they don’t both collapse onto the floor. The heat and the smell of Nixon against his chest becomes too much after a short amount of time and he gently holds the man’s arm until he straightens up. Lewis searches his eyes, and Winters finds that he’s not embarrassed, nor awkward like he’d expected this to be. It’s just them, together, as they always shall be. He offers a smile and Nixon’s eyes light up in return. An understanding, an agreement made without words. They are in this together, for better or for worst.

Nixon pulls out of his grasp and opens the door, stepping out into the crowd. He disappears from sight for a second, swallowed by the sea of red suits. Winters steps in after him, enforcers shaking his hand relentlessly, as he tries to peer over the top of them, searching for Nix. He spots his made men leaning against their cars, a good few meters away from his current position. The new guy Webster is arriving with the two Joe’s and Compton, Bill greeting them with a wide smile. He catches Lipton’s eye and the smaller man points in the general direction of Nixon’s house.

Winters nods his thanks and ducks back down into the crowd and slowly advances through the sea, occasionally catching a glimpse of Nixon’s hair as he too is forced to be polite to the men who will lay down their lives for them today.

Finally, the men thin out a bit in front of Nixon’s house, and he grabs on to Lew’s elbow. The man startles but relaxes when he sees it is Dick. He motions to his house.

“Come on Dick, I need you in order to face Jessie.”

Winters follows him out of the sea.

 

-

 

Webster wakes up with a crick in his neck and a pain in his spine. The crick is from sleeping on the sofa, too small for his adult body, his feet propped over the end and his neck bent at scary angle, but the pain comes from Toye jabbing him in the back with a finger.

“Rise and shine, sunshine.”

Webster turns over and mumbles something rude and unforgiving into the pillow but Toye steals the blanket off of him, throwing it in front of Liebgott’s door the other side of the living room.

“And you can get up too lazybones!”

His volume is louder and Webster hears a mutter that sounds just like his emerging from Liebgott’s room.

“I swear it’s like living with teenagers.”

Toye seems to mostly be talking to himself, so Webster decides he’s not waiting for an answer and slowly drags himself to his feet. Why is he so tired?

“Breakfast in ten.”

Toye’s pat on his back nearly sends him to the floor but he manages to steady himself. As he avoids coming into contact with any furniture, he tries to remember if he’s had too much to drink last night. He recalls three bottles, and that’s it. He’s just tired then. He curses under his breath as he enters the bathroom, keen to take a leak then head to the coffee machine.

Splashing water over his face to wake him up, he turns his face back and forth in front of the mirror. Great, he’s got stubble that within a few days will be a beard. He resists scratching it, knowing from experience that beards are itchy. He brushes his teeth with a previously unopened toothbrush and runs his hands through his hair.

Webster wants to do himself full justice today, so that if he dies, he’s at least remembered fondly. He hopes they’ll shave his beard off for his coffin. His eyes finally opening probably, he exits the bathroom with more grace than when he headed in there, and figures out how to operate the coffee machine. Once his is poured and he’s started on the toaster, Joe stubbles in, looking as sleepy as Web did a few minutes ago.

Liebgott joins him, warm at Webster's hip as he makes himself a coffee –stealing a few sips of Webster’s first-, and Webster doesn't know if Liebgott is doing it on purpose, but he's stroking the backs of his fingers over Webster's forearm, thoughtful. He butters his toast awkwardly, not being able to use his good arm as it’s pressed against Joe. He turns around and Toye hasn’t even noticed their odd display, he’s frowning at some article in the newspaper. Webster sits next to him, peering over Toye’s shoulder to see it’s about some gangster being thrown in jail.

“An old acquaintance?”

“An old threat.” Toye rubs his chin, looking thoughtful but seems to forget about it as he looks up to find Liebgott’s made him a coffee.

“Thanks mate.” Toye nods his thanks, and crosses his legs, propping the paper against his knee. Liebgott sits down opposite Webster and he looks barely awake, sleep lingering in the corner of his eyes. Webster can’t help but smile at how domestic the whole scene looks, a warm smile appearing on his face as he closes his eyes and turns his face into the ray of sunlight coming through the window, humming despite himself at how good it feels. He stretches and with his eyes closed, bangs Toye over the head. The dark haired man just waves his arm away, not even looking up from yet another article about the upcoming elections. Webster turns to Joe to find the man watching him with heavy lidded eyes, head resting on his hand. They share a fond smile. Webster’s not sure why they are smiling, but it feels right, it’s feel natural, like he’s being waiting for this his whole life. Toye reaches the end of his paper, and Liebgott looking a bit more alive and in the world of the living, jumps up and runs out of the room, shouting over his shoulder:

“I claim the showers.”

Next to him Toye mutters a string of insults in a fond voice, like he’s already said them every day for years, and they’ve slowly become an affectionate grumbling in time. Webster winces as the bathroom door slams shut and finds Toye looking at him.

“Own anything red?” Toye asks.

“Don’t own anything currently.”

Toye rolls his eyes and Webster’s grateful that he’s not being pitying. He can’t meant to sound so helpless, but in truth, his present doesn’t look so promising. He’s got nothing, he’s relying on others. Toye’s eyes run up and down him a few times before pulling them both to their feet and leading Webster into his room. He motions for Webster to sit on the double bed, already made, as Toye burrows through his wardrobe.  Webster looks around the room to find it quite bare, a pack of beer on the desk, a few photos of Bill and Compton and an awful lot of gun manuals. Toye lets out a content sound and pulls out a pair of red trousers, flinging them at Webster. Webster tries to look grateful, the colour will save him from friendly fire, but his whole body is almost retching at the tight red jeans.

Toye catches his expression and laughs.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be worse dressed, trust me. And it’s only for today, they’ll be ruined at the end of it, I’m sure. You want a white or black shirt?”

“Grey.” The answer comes from the doorway and they look up to find Joe wearing a red shirt with loose dark trousers, his arms crossed but his smile fond.

Toye nods and pulls a shirt off the rack and aims it at Webster over his shoulder. Webster catches it with one arm, only just avoiding falling off the bed. When he looks again, Liebgott’s gone. He rises to head to the bathroom and Toye threatens him over his shoulder.

“Touch that shower and you die, the second shower is mine.”

Webster freezes and Toye uses his hesitation to his advantage, running for the shower. Webster sighs and abandons the new clothes on the bed, heading back to the kitchen to find that newspaper.

Liebgott’s beaten him to it though, already reading from the back pages, the sports section. Without even looking up, he separates the newspaper in two, handing the middle pages to Webster, the news on politics and people. Webster sits down and pulls them closer, his eyebrows high.

“How did you know I read the middle section?”

“You were a journalist, that’s all you care about. The screw ups of society.”

“That and the front pages.”

“Patience, patience.”

The whole conversation flows between them with Webster staring at Liebgott and Liebgott staring at an article about the local baseball players.

When Webster finally opens his section of the newspaper, Liebgott looks up and watches him, unnoticed as Webster frowns at an article, his eyebrows drawing together. Joe does however, let loose a laugh when Webster helps himself to Liebgott’s coffee without even noticing.

Webster smiles at him, lifting his eyes, a sweet closed mouth smile that clearly states _revenge_. But then Toye finally leaves the bathroom and Webster heads off to take a shower, and Liebgott finishes his caffeine in one gulp. Lieb counts himself lucky that he’s got Toye as his roommate. As much as he loves Toye, the man is completely unobservant about things around him. He’s completely ignored the fact that Joe and Webster are mentally fucking every time they share a glance. He didn’t even mock Liebgott about putting his blanket around Webster on the couch. Joe wouldn’t be surprised if Toye is the only person in the family who doesn’t know that Winters is gay and completely besotted with Nixon. Liebgott shakes his head. No, no one’s that blind.

-

They exit the flat a few hours later, Webster’s hair wet with cold water after discovering the boys had stolen all the hot water. As cold drops slid down his back, Webster vows never to let them do it to him again, even if he has to get up at some stupid hour every morning. He didn’t even have enough warm water to risk shaving his beard, so a two day old stubble dusts his face. He’s pulled on his biker jacket and boots and is currently thanking the lord that he’s the same size as Toye, so he’s able to crouch down without his trousers splitting in two. He knows this because he practiced a few times in front of the mirror first.

 As they walk across the park towards the parking lot in front of Winters’s house, Toye mumbles to himself as he secures his grenades to his jacket.

“I freaking hate grenades.”

“Why?” Webster inquires.  Liebgott laughs but for once, he does not offer an explanation to Toye’s words, so Webster looks expectantly at Toye.

“They always explode on my ass.”

 Webster laughs thinking Toye is joking until Compton jogs up to them as they cross in front of his house, clapping a hand on Toye’s shoulder as he matches their pace.

“Remember to stay away from the grenades Toye.”

“Remember to throw them probably this time Buck.”

Webster throws Toye a smile filled with sympathy as Compton laughs.

They near the parking lot to find a crowd of red. Webster stares a while before realizing that it’s hurting his eyes, watching the dots of red, constantly in motion.

“Told you there would be worse dressed.”

Toye’s smiling at him, openly pointing at the other enforcers, who are all dressed head to toe in red. He tries to smile but it turns into a grimace when he thinks he could have been fooled into dressing like that. Luckily, he’s dressed like the experienced men, only one article of red on him.

 Liebgott’s hand between his shoulder blades guides him towards the made men, all leaning against some red cars and away from the enforcers. He spots Lipton pointing to Nixon’s house and follows his gaze to see Winters nods his thanks as he tries to get through the enforcers, who all wish to shake his hand.

“Pushy aren’t they? I’d forgotten how desperate they were.”

Guarnere is smiling at the enforcers in a way that would make his stomach turn inside out if it was pointed at him. A shark grin, all teeth bared.

“They haven’t figured out yet that Winters isn’t the one who will single handily promote them. They haven’t started making nice to us. Usually we have a few suck ups.”

Compton’s throwing down a few pills that Webster guesses are for weakening his hangover, whilst Lipton watches him with a cold I-warned-you expression. Martin turns around and grins at them.

“It’s a shame. I could use someone to do my laundry this week.”

Next to him Randleman chuckles deeply as he smokes his cigar and Webster recognizes they are leaning against the stupid car Martin had stolen when Webster was passing his test. Webster sits on the bonnet of the car behind him, leaning against the windshield, as Liebgott props himself against his legs and Bill, Buck and Toye lean against the doors and climb on the roof.

At the car in front, Lipton’s sitting down in the passenger’s seat whilst Harry is asleep, his feet on the driver’s steering wheel. Randleman and Martin stand next to them.

After the crowd has calmed down once Winters and Nix enter Nixon’s home, they notice Dike appearing out of nowhere and trying to organize the enforcers into rows, his arms flapping as he huffs and shouts at the younger men. This creates a row of laughter from a few cars down where Luz and Perconte imitate him, to Muck and Malarkey’s entertainment.

A few minutes later, Nixon reappears in a new clean red suit and Winters leads them over to in front of the enforcers, the other side from where the made men are standing. Webster is about to suggest moving forward to be able to hear better, but Winters strong clear voice stops him. The crowd has fallen silent, and Winters’s voice carries easily over to them thanks to the lack of wind. He stands on a mini stage, high enough that they can see him from all the way over by the cars. Nixon stands behind him, setting up some sort of map and Dike stands in the position of attention whilst Winters greets everyone.

“First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for coming. We all know why we’re here today, and I thank you for coming anyway. I owe a few of you my life and I’m sad to announce you may lose yours today. But let’s not dwell upon this.”

He shoots Nixon a glance, and Nixon nods.

“I suppose you want information about what’s happening today. Who we are attacking and why.”

“Yeah, Luz wants to rob us of our last pennies before we fight.”

Harry’s voice echoes out of the car in front and Webster laughs with the other men.

“The concept is simple. The execution is not. We’re attacking Fox family. They have been dealing drugs and I wish to keep this city as clean as I can.”

“Everyone’s dealing drugs these days.” Martin scolds.

“Hell there’s some money in that white powder.” Randleman’s chews his cigar as he replies,  his arms crossed.

Webster ignores Randleman’s and Martin’s quiet conversation, but he registers the way Liebgott twitches against his leg. On his other side, Compton lets out a long low whistle.

“Fox Family? That’s gonna be one hell of a fight.”

Toye looks around confused.

“I thought they were all old men past their prime?”

“Yeah Toye, except the soldiers and enforcers are young guys. And now they’ve got that psycho Speirs with them.”

Webster leans forward and whispers in Liebgott’s ear, grinning when Joe shivers in the warm morning air. He’s basically pressing himself into Joe’s back but he’s not being pushed back. Everything seems to be so easy between them today.

“What’s so wrong with Spiers?”

The Soldier looks up at him and turns his head as though he’s about to tuck it into Webster’s neck, as he replies in Webster’s ear.

“They say he took down a whole warehouse by himself.”

Clearly Bill Guarnere has the observation powers of himself and Toye’s missing ones as he turns around and adds to their conversation.

“And they say he killed one of his own men for selling drugs.”

Webster straightens up but he doesn’t miss the knowing look in Bill’s eyes at his close proximity to Liebgott.

“Then why aren’t we letting Speirs deal with it?” Webster speaks a little louder now and Liebgott turns his head to watch Bill.

“Speirs against his whole Family? He’s good, but not that good! And he’s not that stupid. Bringing down a whole family by yourself? Sure, it can be done, with a lot of planning. But what can he do afterwards? No Family would ever let him back in, no one would want to be near him.”

Guarnere turns around to listen to Winters and Webster lets the subject go, though he wants to know more about this man surrounded in rumors.  Winters’s voice reaches him again.

“If anything in this life is certain, if history has taught us anything, it is that you can kill anyone. We’ll be attacking the warehouse out front first. Once we’ve secured the area, you’ll move in and split into your two squads. Squad one will take the right hand side, moving through the enforcer’s house to secure the hospital. Squad two will have to move fast and run up the road to the Soldier’s houses. Once there, stick close to the walls and clear out the houses. Once we’ve taken these two objectives, we’ll open fire on the capo’s house, a stretch of tall buildings that forms a wall. Once we’ve taken the capo’s houses, the rest should be child’s play. Item Family will join us to replenish our numbers and together we’ll take over the Don’s household.”

Nixon has showed every stage of the plan on a map big enough for them to see as Dike has stared at it in confusion. 

“Jesus Christ, we gotta do all this with a C.O. who has his head so far up his fuckin' ass, that lump in his throat is his goddamn nose.”

Guarnere is cursing to himself above Webster head from his spot of the roof and Toye gently gives his thigh a quick pat. Winters continues, unhearing.

“We’ve got Item as back up, and Nixon reassures me he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve, but don’t underestimate the enemy. And I’d like to point out the Fox has strong ties with Able, so we might not be the only ones with back-up.”

Everyone around the cars gasp in understanding. Dick hesitates up on the stage and looks at them in surprise, an eyebrow lifting.

“Did I miss something?”

Nixon walks forward and explains to Winters.

“Able must have heard the rumors about our attack, despite our best efforts, as they ripped up Web’s place yesterday, probably to warn us off.”

“Well that was a bit pointless, I only found out today.”

Winters grins, humour clearly stated in his voice, and Webster can see him leaning into Nixon’s touch. It’s subtle, but it’s there. They share a fond smile and Nixon steps up on stage as Winters falls back. Nixon’s voice is rougher around the edges, but they still manage to hear him all the way from the back. Webster can spot the light tone of voice used in business meetings, and knows that Nixon has had training for speaking like this to crowds since he was very young. And to Nixon’s credit, he does it very well indeed.

“Right, now let’s get into the details. First of all, get into your squads. Dike has the list.”

Dike steps forward and starts with splitting the enforcers into two teams.

There’s so many that Webster only catches a few names: Gordon, Grant, Wynn, Talbert, Sisk and Ramirez are in team one. Their objective is to cut all the telephone wires before the attack on the warehouse, so Able’s reinforcements take longer to arrive. They’ll then rendezvous with first squad once inside the hub.

 “Squad I is composed of Harry Welsh, as your CO, Randleman, Martin, Lipton and Heffron. They’ll be joined by medic Eugene Roe. Your objective once inside is securing the hospital. Christenson, you are in charge of getting your fellow enforcers to the correct rendezvous.”

A tall man with sharp teeth, dressed in a red hat, nods. Dike continues.

“Team two of the enforcers will be attacking the hub in exploding cars, they’ll be our first line of attack. This is a risky operation but if you survive, you’ll be rewarded beyond your imagination. You’ll have to jump out as soon you turn the corner to avoid getting blown up. Find something to wedge down the accelerator so it continues driving into the building once you’re out. Once you get out, if you get out, open up covering fire as the squads file in.”

The men around Webster raise their eyebrows in surprise, frowning and whispering between themselves.

“That sounds a bit risky. Even for Nixon.” Lipton voice is low but it carries over the group.

“That’s why they’re giving it to the enforcers.” Bill shrugs, lighting up a cigarette. “What do we care? It doesn’t concern us!”

“Some of us have friends in the enforcers Bill.” Liebgott says, watching Cobb at the corner of his eye.

Webster feels sorry for the enforcers in team II and listens as Dick names the unlucky ones, Webster only watching the odd one, though there are considerably less of them. 

Hoobler, Janovec, Cobb, Miller… Webster.

Everyone around him falls silent. Webster had forgotten that he would be counted among the enforcers.  Webster lets out a strangled gasp and feels like he’s falling into the darkness, beasts grabbing his clothes and pulling him deeper, and he’s thinks that this time, he might not be able to resurface.

 

-

 

Webster shakes his head, his heart beating too fast; he can feel it against his chest. He feels like he’s just fallen asleep whilst driving and is yanking himself awake again. Adrenaline has already kicked in and he’s up and moving before he can even register that his feet are supporting his weight. He slides off the hood, Liebgott, who had been leaning against his legs, loses his balance and staggers. Joe had been too absorbed thinking about Webster’s fate to actually pay attention to the man. Webster nods grimly at the men and starts walking forward, to meet his team, the one with whom he would share his grave. Dike continues, not noticing how Webster’s life has fallen into pieces around him as he drags his feet.

“Team two will hook up with Squad II and we’ll take the Soldiers’ houses. I’ll be leading Squad II, with Compton, Guarnere, Toye, Malarkey, Muck, Penkala , Liebgott, Luz and Perconte. Luz, don’t lose your radio.”

Webster is only a few paces into no man’s land, leaving the made men behind, when Liebgott snaps out of his trance and sprints across the car park to clutch on to his arm, preventing him from advancing. Webster shoves him but Liebgott doesn’t let go so he hisses at Joe.

“What are you doing?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m saving your sorry arse from certain death.”

“I’m an enforcer, I have to follow orders.”

“Webster you haven’t been a simple enforcer since the day you refused to sit down at our table in the Lucky Star.”

“That’s lovely Joe, now stop causing a scene and let me go.”

Webster yanks his arm out of Liebgott’s grasp and begins walking to his team again, ignoring the fact that every single man at the back is watching him, including Winters and co at the front. Smooth Liebgott, real smooth! Webster tries to fight off the blush that’s colouring his cheeks. But before he can get very far, Toye takes a few steps and overtakes Webster, gently pushing him backwards towards their car.

Toye lays a protective arm around him, and Martin comes over to lean against their car, all of them crossing their arms as Webster stands helplessly in the middle, surrounded by too many strong arms. He ought to feel embarrassed, and if the blush on his cheeks are any indication, he does, but he’s also extremely relieved, deep down. Nixon looks at them from behind Dike and gives them a nod. Instantly everyone around Webster relaxes and moves back to their spot. Webster stands there, not sure what’s just happened - did they just defy Dike for him? - when Liebgott huffs and pulls him back onto the car hood.

“Did you think we were going to let you perform a kamikaze attack Web? Seriously?”

Bill looks at him in surprise and Webster nods.

“Wow. You’re an idiot.”

Webster resists sticking out his tongue and concentrates on what Dike is saying, ignoring the fact that he’s just been saved from certain death. Liebgott is still breathing too quickly next to him and he’s running his hands in a circle on Webster’s back, but Webster gets the feeling it’s to reassure himself more than Web.

Nixon has taken over now, explaining where the telephones wires are located, and how to activate the bombs in the cars. When he’s done, Nixon steps down and walks over to their little group, Dick and Dike behind him.

“Look Webster, your name wasn’t meant to be on that list.” Nixon offers an apologetic smile.

“Why not? I’m an enforcer.” Webster asks, catching the look exchanged between Nixon and Liebgott, who is behind his shoulder.

Dike nods, clearly agreeing with Webster but everyone shoots Dike a dirty look. Except Winters who appears to be amused by all of this, watching Nixon and Webster with a small smile. Nixon looks away from Joe and back to Webster, his words coming out thick and fast.

“Like hell you’re an enforcer Webster. Listen kid, you’re currently living in a soldier’s house; the men are all stupidly fond of you. You’ve saved Dick’s life. You took down a gang. You’ve made a name for yourself on the streets as an Easy man.  The enemy have you on their bad list, they destroyed your old flat. You sit with the men in the Lucky Star and make bets with Luz. You have a seat at the made men table. The men have cleaned up after yours and Joe’s little adventure down at the bar. You’ve even cooked them a meal. Truth is David, you never were an enforcer. An enforcer never gets that many open doors, they sit around for years waiting for a day like today where they hope they can live long enough to be able to prove themselves.”

Webster stares at Nixon in open wonder and clearly the man’s words don’t register as the next question out of his mouth is:

“How do you know so much about me?”

Winters is the one to break the silence with an easy laugh.

“It’s in his job description. You’ll go on in with second squad Webster.”

Dike seems about to protest but Martin shoots him a look that clearly stops him in his tracks. It appears Dike only has control over the enforcers, not that Webster had thought for one minute that Dike could ever force the Soldiers and Capos into doing something they didn’t like.

“I don’t want to. That’ll be favouritism.”

Bill huffs and groans under his breath.

“That’s an order Webster.” Winters voice is short and clipped and he has already turned away and moved back to the stage before Webster can object again.

“Idiot.”

Compton tries to tell him off but his tone is too kind and relieved to mean anything and by the time Malarkey appears, they are joking among themselves as the enforcers are shown to their cars, rundown things that don’t compare to the beautiful motors the made men are leaning against.

“So the bet over there is Liebgott made a scene with lots of crying and Dike took pity and decided to save Webster’s fine arse.”

Webster and Liebgott freeze and blush as Compton pulls Malarkey into a half hug.

“Pretty much.”

“Hmm, good, that’s another tenner off Luz. He thought that Webster had fainted.”

Malarkey shoots them a grin, eyeing Liebgott’s hand on Webster’s back.

“Now however, I have moved onto bigger targets. Compton, want to play a game?”

Webster and Liebgott are already being ignored and Joe’s still running his fingers over Webster’s back. Webster tells himself it’s because there’s a very high risk of the dying today, and Joe would never otherwise show so much affection. But even so, he gets as much as he can, somehow managing to resist placing his head on Joe’s shoulder and going to sleep.

“Let’s see who can kill the most amounts of people. We’re in the same squad and we’ll have Luz keep count.” Malarkey offers.

“No way is Luz keeping count; he’ll add kills onto your score.” Compton retorts.

“Oy! No I won’t!”

Luz appears out of nowhere, a radio on his back. He shoots Webster a thumbs up before turning back to the gambling pair.

“I promise I’ll be fair.” He flutters his eyelashes at Compton who sighs. When Malarkey turns to talk to Toye, Compton and Luz exchange a hidden handshake, a quick murmur of words flowing between them as they exchange prices. When Malarkey turns around again, Compton makes a show of giving in.

“Fine, fine, Luz can keep count.”

Malarkey has an honest smile on his face as he beams at them.

“Right, it’s a deal. See you on the other side, Loser. Come on Luz.”

They both leave, after Luz’s departing advice:

“Remember boys, flies spread disease, so keep yours closed.”

 Bill smacks Compton on the shoulder.

“You...you are a very evil man, you know that?”

“His own fault, he offered to play with Luz as judge!”

“Then he’s a poor defenceless fool and you are a bad man for using this to your advantage.”

Up on the stage, Nixon has drawn everyone’s attention again and all four groups settle down, everyone spilt into their squads.

“First things first. The chain of command. Winters and I will on site as soon as you have taken over the hub. You’ll find us on the roof of the hub with Powers, who will be providing you with sniper coverage. But you shouldn’t need us. If Dike falls, second in command is Compton, followed by Welsh then Lipton.”

Webster grins at Compton as everyone jokingly shoves him around, Dike glaring at them all to stay calm.

“There is something else. We have ourselves an inside man. He should be wearing red, so don’t fire. He’s the one who has supplied me with information and he’s the one that will save half of you today, indirectly or directly. When he arrives, you are all to follow his orders. No matter if you have a personal problem with him, you are to do as he says. Unless he’s shooting at you, in which case, open fire. Am I clear?”

“Wow, you’d think he’d brought back Sobel from the dead.”

Toye’s mouth barely moves yet everyone in their squad hears him.

“Don’t go joking over Sobel’s dead corpse Joe, it’s bad luck.” Replies Luz in a serious tone from where he’s sitting on the floor. Even Dike has to agree on that one.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. Once you get into combat, the only man you can trust is yourself, and the man next to you.” Compton says, sitting himself down in the driver’s seat of their car, Bill calling shotgun and Toye, Liebgott and Webster filling in the back seats. Toye replies:

“Hey, as long as he’s Easy.”

Later, when all the squads are pouring into the hub and locating cover, the man next to Webster turns out to be Liebgott.

 

II-               Into the fray – Web POV

Winters’s echo of “Deploy your troops” rings in Webster’s ears as he watches the cars explode as they swing around the corner. More than half of the enforcers in Team II don’t make it out and the ones that do are harboring broken bones and pavement burn on their hands and faces. One of the unlucky ones had run into a lamppost and exploded before even entering through the thick stone walls that surround the trio of buildings. Webster feels luckier than ever at not being in one of those cars and Liebgott’s expression of horror echoes his own.

The telephone wires have been cut, they’re dangling off the sides of buildings as row after row of red cars pull up at Fox Family’s compound. Everyone falls out, the only noise coming from the slamming of car doors. There are no screams coming from innocents. There are moans of pain on each side, low and ringing in his ears; but otherwise the only sound is gunfire. It’s surreal. Webster has only ever had public shootouts, but this is something else. This is an army against an army. There are no innocents on this battlefield.

As over a hundred men press themselves against the outer walls of the Warehouse’s gate, the sounds of covering fires commence inside. Nearest to the gate, Compton looks up and down his row of men and nods at them, sticking three fingers in the air then motioning to head inside, before holding up his palm, followed by another five fingers.

Compton heads in first, twisting around the corner and running into the place. Dike and Bill head in after Buck. Toye counts to five under his breath, and then together with Toye and Liebgott, Webster rushes around the corner into the warehouse’s unloading park.

Webster would like to say he observed the general layout as they ran in, but instead he’d ducked his head down and dived behind cover, next to Dike, Compton and the others who were first in. On either end of their little stretch of crates, which happens to be in the center of the driveway, Toye opens fire with a machine gun, Joe copying him on the other end. Webster ducks down low and slowly moves over next to Liebgott and starts feeding in the ammunition. As Joe fires with one eye closed, Webster watches the other members of both their squad and first move into other positions around the courtyard. Harry, Lipton and Luz join them in their central hiding spot.

Joe’s stopped firing for a moment, so Webster wastes time checking what the leaders are doing. Lipton is yelling something at Dike, as Luz chatters into the radio to Dick, who is waiting around the corner in a car. Guarnere and Welsh have made a crude map of the layout on one of the crates and Compton is peeking his head over their line of cover to search the area for useful items. Webster runs his eyes over the map and memorizes the layout. They entered through one gate; they need to exit through the one directly opposite. The second gate is incrusted in the office buildings and the computer to open it lies inside. On either side of the stretch between these two points, they are surrounded by long narrow warehouses on either side, a walkway running above their heads at the far end, linking the two.

 After about a minute of muffled arguments between all the Capos, Lipton gets up and dashes over to the left, his hand hovering over his head, shouting to his squad:

“Fire on the walkway, fire on the walkway. Spread out, find cover and save your shots.”

Welsh shoots Dike a worried look before giving Compton a rub on the shoulder and following Carwood. Joe has started firing again, and Webster lines the next round of ammo ready for Joe. Then, a searing pain juts through his hands and he falls back onto his bum.

“Ah Christ.”

Joe runs out of ammo and looks down to see what stopped Webster, to find Webster cradling a very red hand.

“Shit Webster, you lose a finger?”

“They got me.”

There are people in this world who faint at the sight of blood. Lucky Webster is not one of them otherwise he’d be unconscious for a very long time right about now. Webster looks down at the red stain on his wrist, flicking off the most of it as he shakes his hand. He looks to his right to check on Liebgott. The Jew is looking back at him, smiling through his adrenaline rush. Seeing the man unhurt, he looks back down at the darkening substance and feels…nothing. A few years ago, he’s had shaking hands every time he went into combat. It wasn’t bad enough to affect his aim, but the guys had mocked him out it endlessly. But Webster is under stress right this instant, and his hand is perfectly steady.  Grunting, he wipes his hand on his jeans, saving the bandage that Roe had handed them out to each made man, and Joe had stolen one for web.

Being under cover gives Webster time to realize how much it hurts, how badly he’s injured.

“Don’t stay still.”

Webster looks up. There so much experience in Joe’s voice, like he’s stayed still once when he was hurt and had come out worse for wear that Webster nods and picks himself up.  

 Compton signals all attention to him and shouts out his orders, miming them at the same time.

“Move up second squad. Take cover behind the lorries. Check your corners, head into the outer buildings.”

Without a second to spare, second squad move up, hiding behind lorries as they slowly edge into the unloading bays, swinging their guns left right and center as first stays out in the courtyard, firing onto the main building.

Webster’s taken the right hand side building with Liebgott, Compton, Guarnere and Toye, whilst Dike has headed left with Luz’s group. As they all stand lined up against a lorry’s side, Compton risks his neck trying to see inside. Liebgott turns around to look at Webster and his eyes are so wide they seem to fill his face, a manic smile on the lower half.

“Nixon was right about the inside man.”

“How’d you figure that out Joe? And when is he ever wrong?”  Webster shouts into Liebgott’s ear as he reloads his gun.

 “The deliveries haven’t been put away, providing us with cover. And they are filled with stuff that stops bullets. There’s even a random piano! Likewise, the lorries remained here over night. That isn’t coincidence. Nixon will have left no space for coincidence.”

“Oh.” Is all Webster can manage. He’s been so busy thinking about saving his own arse to actually look and see that cover has been provided for them. And currently, he is too busy trying to tighten the strip of clothes he’s using as a bandage for his hand. Joe watches him for a minute before leaning over and tightening it himself. Webster watches him work on Webster’s hand, an expression of fierce concentration on Joe’s face, saying.

“I got hit. Can you believe it? You believe I said that? Of all the things to say, I said ‘I got hit’.”

Joe tightens the bandage all of a sudden to shut Webster up and picks up his gun again.

 Up ahead, Guarnere is diving in and out of cover as he fires his machine gun into the warehouse. Compton watches him for a moment before pulling him to a halt.

“Don’t be afraid to dream a little bigger Darling.”

And, throwing a package in through the open door, Compton explodes the whole building.

 

-

 “That only counts as one!”

 “One for Compton; Zero for Malarkey”

The men run over to the left building, re-joining Dike.  Their grenades go in first, the men second.

Bullets whizz overhead and Webster steals a strip of cloth off some dead guy’s shirt to wrap around his hand to secure his previous attempt. 

Cramped into a contained space, the heat of so many bodies and the iron smell of blood mixed in with gunpowder make the stench too much to bear.  When the last man lies dead, they filter outside again.

 “SNIPERS ON THE WALKWAY. FIND COVER.”

Lipton shouts out the warning before being blown backwards.

 “EVERYONE DROP!”

For a few moments, the only sound is of gunfire again, as Roe fixes Lipton’s dislocated knee.

Webster shoots overhead. The sun light blinds him. Miller receives a shot to the neck and drops like a stone next to him. Webster tries to put distance between himself, the dead body and the shooting sniper but Liebgott pulls a staring Webster back to cover.

“I’m fucking teaching a boy how to fight like a man.”

The early thrill of the fight has disappeared from Joe’s face, leaving hard lines instead. He frowns and shakes his head at Webster. Joe aims his gun and kills the sniper that hit Miller.

And then Joe’s back again. He’s alive. He’s in his element, right here in the thick of a gunfight. Everything he does seems like a natural extension of his body. His gun at home in his arms. His hair sweep back by something that looks like gun oil. There’s a cut on his neck and dirk on his cheekbones. To Webster, he looks like a forbidden god.

“Be careful, if the wind changes, your face will stick like that.”

Webster’s mouth fall even wider open at Joe’s words. Liebgott grins and closes it with two fingers under his chin.

 “Walkway clear.”

“PEPPER THE WINDOWS.”

As one line, the whole crew charge into the offices.

On the top floor, they find the computer. Luz hacks it.

As the two squads spilt up as they enter Fox Family’s compound, Shifty, Nixon and Winters climb to the office’s roof.

 

 

III-             A change in the tide

 

It was like the whole thing was a rollercoaster, speeding up and slowing down. Reaching new heights and then plummeting you to your death. Webster wipes away the blood that’s flowing down his forehead and keeps his head up, taking in his surroundings this time. He didn’t want to be relying on the others this time.

Fox’s compound is bigger and has a completely different layout than Easy’s. It is contained behind a huge white wall, the Hub being the only entrance, its back to the sea. The first half of it is split in two by a road up the middle. On the left side, there’s a huge park that leans into the Soldiers’ houses. On the right, there’s immediate cover in the form of the Enforcers’ small flats, which backs on to the hospital, a huge old building that looks indestructible. After that, there’s a row of tall buildings forming an iron wall, the Capos buildings. Then behind them there’s a strip of grass before a huge manor where the Don lives.

The buildings are grim and foreboding, close together with little dirty streets running between them. Narrow doors are recessed into the buildings. The tops of the roofs are flat –with wooden planks enabling easy access between one roof to another. Webster notices the houses closest to the outer wall, the enforcers, are low, no more than one story, but the buildings get progressively higher as they go in. The Capo’s are the tallest of all, with only the Hub’s office’s matching their height, in order for the gate to be big enough to let all the lorries in and out.

“This place looks ready for war.”

Liebgott nods as they both run into the park, hiding behind some trees. To their right, first squad departs into the enforcer’s section without any hesitation, running through the incoming fire, heaving grenades into windows.

“Fox has a history of getting attacked; it’s one of the oldest families. Some of the buildings are higher than others so that if they are attacked, snipers can fire from the rooftops. Because the houses near the edge are lower, the shooters at the back can fire over them without fear of hitting their comrades. It also means that we can’t post snipers on the lower rooftops, as they’ll get picked off instantly.”

Joe pops his head out from behind the tree and rushes up a few paces, Webster ducking his head and following him, pressing into his back so they can share the cover.

“So basically, we’ve got no chance?”

“No, we just need to stay out of the open. Because of the design, the snipers can’t shoot in-between the buildings, so it will be slower going, but safer. If Dike would just hurry up.”

Webster leans out a fraction and sees Dike sitting on the ground unmoving as Luz yells into his ear, giving him a mouthful.

“I’ve never seen a place organized like this!”

“No one is ever allowed in, so nobody can learn the layout. I’m surprised Nixon got so much information on it, he must have paid our inside man through the roof.”

Webster settles on his knees and lances around him in the park. Luckily it hasn’t rained in days so the ground is hard underfoot, so they don’t slip, but it’s starting to moisten with all the blood. Malarkey is behind the tree next to them and Toye, Penkala and Muck have run to the far left, out of sight.

“What’s on the left?”

“No idea Web. Bit busy here.”

Webster looks down to where he’s braced himself against Liebgott with one hand and notices the man is trying to shot at the houses in front of them, but he’s affecting his liberty of movement. He pats Liebgott on the back and dashes out of cover, leaving Joe behind as he runs to the far left.

He ducks down behind another tree, no one else in sight around him in the park and sees where Toye has disappeared too. The whole stretch of the left hand side of the wall is one long car park, and he spots Muck moving up the line car by car. Webster gnaws his bottom lip but turns around and heads back to Liebgott, taking Malarkey’s space at the tree next to his, as the ginger runs forward towards Compton, who is hiding behind a brick wall.

“There’s a huge car park on the left flank!”

Joe looks up in surprise at the sound of his voice, startled to see Webster has returned to his side. He recovers in less than a second.

“That’s just dandy, now what the hell do you want me to do with that knowledge?”

Webster just huffs and clicks the safety off his gun. Real gunfights are a lot different from movies ones. There aren’t pauses when people die. In fact, half of the time, you find out your best friend has been killed after the fight. So Webster’s sticking close to Liebgott, constantly watching him out of the corner of his eye. He wants to be sure of Joe’s health at all times, rather than find out from one of the other men at the end of the day. Luckily, Joe is thinking along the same lines, and he motions to Webster that he’s about to move up so they can go together. Webster looks, choses a tree to aim for, then together they fly over the ground, dodging the oncoming fire.

Up ahead, Luz has finally gotten Dike up and moving again. The fight continues.

 

-

 

 

A few idiots try to run up to the Soldier’s houses and get gunned down. Web and Joe are pinned down. Everyone is pinned down because of Dike’s orders.

Toye, Penkala and Muck have made it to the other end of the car park. But they’re pinned down from fire from the Soldiers’ houses.

Back in the hub, their concern had been of being surrounded; now it’s of being spread too thin.

-

 

First squad is advancing quicker than Dike’s. Harry leads his men right as soon as they stumble into the compound. He unhooks grenades and throws them in through the windows of the outer houses, shutting down the machine gun fire. He then separates his squad, sending ten men down every back alley. Randleman takes the first, Martin the second, leaving Welsh with the third.

They lose a few men, but it’s over remarkably fast. Too fast, they didn’t meet enough resistance. The three alleys converge into one horizontal one, where Welsh halts the men and has them take cover as he heads towards Randleman’s towering frame, as he looks down an alley onto the hospital. Next to Bull, he spots Martin swearing under his breath as he tries to stop his leg from bleeding.

“Hey Martin, nice war paint.”

Martin looks up and the red lines of blood around his eyes from his leg crinkle as he smiles.

“Am I the only one who thought that was too easy?”

Welsh nods in agreement as Lipton rushes up behind them, Roe a few steps behind him. Eugene instantly takes the bandage out of Johnny’s shaking hands and wraps it in place, supporting Martin’s calf. Lipton turns to Welsh and Harry wonders when he started being in charge of this squad.

“We tried going up an alley back there, lost five men instantly. They’ve poured all their enforcers into the hospital and they’re shooting out of the back windows. We can’t advance up them.”

“Well that’s shit luck as that’s the only way forward. Any ideas?”

The Capo’s around him shake their heads and Harry huffs out a breath, falling back on his arse.

“So we’re stuck?” Lipton inquires.

“We can’t be stuck. We’re here to help unstick second squad.” Harry slaps his hand in frustration.

“How do we know they are stuck?”

“Because Dike is leading them!”

Lipton raises his eyebrows in surprise at Harry’s harsh words, but Welsh can’t bring himself to care right now. His tongue is playing with the gap in between his teeth as he looks around. And that’s when he spots them. Stupid, but it will work.

Dustbins.

 

-

 

“I can’t believe this is working.”

Lipton is huffing besides him as along with a few other men, they push huge big full dustbins down the alley, providing cover for them as they edge nearer to the hospital. Harry grins at him and looks around to see several other dustbins moving down the alley behind him, seemingly all by themselves, though he knows there are men pushing each one. Bullets ring off the outer metal shell and the one that get through are lost into the bin bags inside.

“This is the most stupid idea you’ve ever had Harry.”

Lipton’s red in the face, already worn out from his dislocated knee earlier and Harry gently takes his spot, placing his shoulder to the side of the bin, pushing his feet into the ground as it moves a few inches.

“They need to put wheels on these things.”

“I don’t think they designed dustbins to be moving cover in the middle of a gunfight.”

“Hmm, maybe they should fix that then. I’ll get Kitty to send an official letter of complaint when we get home.”

They’ve reached the end of the ally by now, and are figuring out how to corner it to get to the front door. This takes another ten minutes, but they finally arrive at an entrance into the hospital and rush through the doors. Welsh makes sure the reception room is clear, before sending capo’s along corridors, followed by about ten enforcers to a made man.

“Clear the ground floor. Check the rooms. Don’t kill the patients. Then move up. Remember to check your corners guys.”

Welsh shouts as a few young enforcers rush down a corridor without looking. He sighs and turns back to the front doors, where Heffron and Roe are carrying in a few badly injured men. He halts the remaining enforcers.

“Clear the rooms downstairs into useable rooms for Doc here. Bring back any morphine and bandages you find.”

“And plasma.” Roe quiet voice floods into his ears.

“And plasma everybody. Anything that you think will help, bring it back here.”

The men go rushing off and Harry locates Lipton in the crowd.

“Lip, hey, Lip.”

The older man turns around, his fingers currently pressing down on someone’s artery. Harry drags over an enforcer, Ramirez, and gets him to relieve Lipton.

“Man, I need you to organize things here. I need to find Bull and Martin and find a way to get to Dike.”

Lipton nods and moves over to the reception desk, clearing away the forms and creating space for the medic equipment heading towards them, sorting them into piles as Roe gives orders from his spot on the floor, next to a badly bleeding man.

Harry flicks his eyes over the room one more time before deciding it’s under control and heads up the stairs, following the sound of gunshots.

 

-

 

Roe barely notices Harry’s exit, but he notices Heffron’s entrance, arms filled with crates of bandages. The ginger places them down next to him and patiently waits for instructions. Roe looks around to find Lipton in front of a desk full of morphine and plasma crates arriving towards him.

“Go find me some empty beds.”

Heffron nods and offers Roe a sweet smile. His eyes are kind and he looks worried. But there’s something lurking in the back ground, something that nothing can ever change between them. It’s shown in the way Heffron waits for his orders. Or how Roe can put a hand out and Heffron will know what to give him. It’s there in the way they move around each other seamlessly. How Roe will get annoyed and Heffron will calm him down. How Heffron will get rid of the idiots around him and make sure only people who are willing to listen to him surround him. It’s there in that small smile Heffron had given him on his doorstep this morning, a small smile that said ‘this might be our last day together’. A nod that had said ‘I know’. The touches that their hands made when they were worried. All of this is behind the look that Heffron is giving him, like it’s the last time they might see each other. Right here, over this bleeding body. And in reality, that could well be the case. So Roe ignores it and just nods at Heffron, avoiding his eyes and focusing on the work.

 

On the damaged veins, on the head wounds, on the lost legs. Due to the high stress of combat, the men are bleeding out quicker, but the rush of adrenaline mean that less people need morphine. He loses himself in his tapestry of mass destruction, swirling red paint around, painting a clear message as the white tiles turn red.

 

When he raises his head again, over the body of young soldier that can’t even breathe through all this blood, all of first squad are gone, moved on to the next part of the plan, and only him and Lipton remain. Roe fixing the patients, and Lipton carting them into rooms. He notices a few other moving forms and realizes that Fox’s medics are helping him. Medics aren’t here to choose sides, they are here to heal. He gives them a nod and rinses his hands.

Lipton picks up Eugene’s last patient and sadly moves him onto the dead body pile.

-

Toye swears and jumps to cover Popeye’s ass, a grenade exploding behind him.

“That’s fucking twice.”

He mutters as he exhales, his arse gone numb.  Underneath him Popeye cries out something that’s muffled by a tank of oil exploding a few meters away. He looks down but the blonde is already trying to sit up, his face contorted like every movement is hurting him.

“Lie down Pop, stay here.”

He’s pushing the man down, trying to stop him from moving but Wynn is already opening a car door next to him, trying to shift himself into the driver’s seat. Joe grunts, and tries to help Popeye by placing his shoulder under his legs, levering him into position.

As Wynn leans down to hot wire the car, one of Fox’s men shoot at the tires, deflating them in one big whoosh.

“Crap, Popeye, we’re moving up.”

He opens the door again, and Popeye climbs on to his back, like he’s giving him a piggyback. On the outer edge of the cars, where Skip and Penkala are opening fire, he hears someone shout:

“Looks like you messed up your ass there Wynn.”

Toye grunts and tries to get to his feet, weaving through the cars with Popeye on his back, looking for another intact car. He spots one far enough away that the shooters can’t pop the tires and deposits Wynn in the driver’s seat. Popeye lands with a bump and a stream of curses, most of them directed at Toye.

“Shh, you love me really.”

“Like hell I do Toye.”

Toye crouches on the other side of the car, out of the line of fire as Popeye leans under the steering wheel, hijacking the car. When the low rumble of the car starting up reaches him, he hears Popeye’s shout of joy from the front. It’s the last sound he’ll ever hear Popeye voice. There’s a gunshot and the front windscreen cracks.

“Shit.” Joe mutters and races to the front, yanking open the driver’s door. Popeye’s form fills the driver’s seat, looking ready to drive out of them if it wasn’t for the round bullet hole between his empty staring eyes.

“SNIPERS.”

Joe throws himself under one of the cars, protected on all sides but it’s now impossible to shoot. His head twitches in frustration and he bangs his head on the underside of the car.

“Son of a bitch.”

His fingers run through his hair but to his relief they come out dirty, not bloody. He sighs, all his breath leaving him in one go, before gently edging forwards, under one car to another, trying to meet up with Muck. When he gets to them, they too are pinned down, hiding under the cars.

“Looks like there’s a sniper.”

“It’s a wonder that it took so long, I thought there would be more.”

-

Shifty’s next shot hits the sniper who is pinning down Penkala and Muck just as Toye reaches them. He shifts his weight over to the other knee and extends his collapsible stock bracers on the roof edge for accuracy and starts picking off the men like chickens in their runs. He’s aiming at such long distances that every shot is based mostly on luck but he hits more guys than he misses so he figures he’s doing all right.

He’s on top of the roof of the hub, the only building capable of rivaling the Capo’s houses height, the one flaw in the whole compound. He rubs his nose in frustration as Dike remains planted in the park, not daring to move up to take over the Soldier’s houses. He turns around and reports to Nixon, who is watching the scene next to him through binoculars.

“Dike’s still not moving the men. Buck’s having no effect on him, neither is Luz. Toye’s crew is no longer pinned down but they can’t move until second squad does. Harry’s making his way over to assist them and Lipton remained in the hospital with Roe.”

On Nixon’s over side, Winters growls under his breath, a frightening sound that makes Shifty quake in his boots. Dick has been watching the scene through his sniper rifle, but he’d stopped firing once the men had moved out of normal range, saving the ammo for Shifty’s lucky shots.

Nixon is obviously worried about Winters presence, he keeps checking on the ginger behind him. But Powers finds it calms him. And Dick has been stopping Nixon from taking swigs from his drink, so they are both level headed.

Theory predicts that they should be able to take over the compound. But Shifty observes that they are all pinned down, on every end. Is the theory wrong or is there some other factor he has left out? Nixon still seems confident enough; he keeps checking the time and muttering ‘hurry up’. Dick exchanges a glance with Powers and they decide to ignore Nixon’s mutterings. Whatever trump card Nixon thought he had, it appears he has bailed on them. They’re on their own now.

-

“Shit! Commander, they have cleared the hospital.”

One of Fox’s made men runs forward, running up the stairs in one of the soldier’s buildings, climbing to the roof.

“And their first squad is joining this one.”

His commander remains by his window, dressed entirely in green, Fox’s colours, looking out across the roundabout and into the park on the other side, where they had pinned down second squad, who were taking cover behind the trees.

“How many are coming?”

“About fifty sir. I think I spotted a few of the Capo’s along them, Randleman and Welsh.”

His commander hits the wall beside him.

“Do we have a plan sir?”

“Just keep them pinned down, make sure they can’t flank us.”

 

The made man nods and exits the room. As he flies down the stairs, he has a clear shot at one of the men through the little window. He pauses for a second, lines up his shot, then fires, watching the man fall before continuing down the staircase, to the ground floor.

-

Over on the other side of the line, Dike collapses next to Luz, shot through the head.

-

 

Randleman follows Harry over to second squad. The men are all pinned down, focused on the roundabout leading into the houses. He spots Webster and Liebgott shooting through a machine gun as his eyes search for Dike. That’s when he sees them. Buck, Malarkey and Luz sitting around Dike’s fallen body. Martin shoots him a look from next to him and they rush forward, Harry hot on their heels.

“Shit, Dike’s dead.”

“Doesn’t that make you C.O Buck?”

“Guess it does big guy.”

The two blondes look at each other, a conversation underneath their silence. Buck finally blinks, covering his pale eyes for a second, and when they reopen, there’s a spark in them.

“Ok, listen up. We’re pinned down on all sides. We’re running low ammo. We need to take over the houses and restock before we run out. Bill and I are going to lead the main charge up the roundabout. Harry, set up covering fire. See if we have any mortars.”

Harry nods and runs backwards into the trees. Buck turns and points at Randleman.

“You and Johnny are going to go up the main street with squad one.”

Randleman sighs and Martin frowns, leering at Buck.

“Up the main street? Are you insane? It’s the perfect place for an ambush!”

“Yes but I need them distracted!”

“So we’re gun fodder?”

Buck and Martin stare at each other for a second, heat in their eyes as they try to claim the upper hand. After a second, Martin bites his bottom lip and swears.

“Shit. Can’t be avoided.”

“Good luck Johnny.”

Martin turns and pushes Randleman on the shoulder, and together they go back the way they came.

“How do you suggest we succeed?”

“By staying alive.”

Randleman offers Johnny a smile as their squad falls in behind them. He turns around, his mouth longing for a cigar, but a battlefield is not the place for one. He eyes all of the thin enforcers, no character nor meat to any of them. They need to be protected, rather than be lead into battle. He stretches out his arm, cutting the group in half.

“Right, everyone on the left, set up covering fire. Everyone on the right, follow me. We’re the main attack. Find cover as soon as possible. Empty doorways, corners anything. Try and break the locks and get inside. We’re not heading for the end of the road, we’re heading for the Soldiers houses.”

Randleman checks the layout of the street again. It’s a clear ambush site, but it’s his job to check it out. And he has his orders; he knows how to follow them. He adjusts his helmet, checks his men are in place, then charges out.

As he races down the straight road, he can hear the gun shots in all directions, but he also hear the sound of boots hitting the tarmac behind him so he knows his crew are still on him. He keeps running. He runs pass a few doorways, stretching his arm out, motioning to the men behind him to take them. He keeps running the length of the street, his breath laboured as he gradually directs the men into houses as he sprints all the way to the halfway point. Reaching it, he dives into a side alley, now protected on two sides. He checks himself over for injuries. But he’s good to go, apart from the cramp in his calf and his helmet is completely peppered. 

He shakes his leg a bit and steadies his gun, heading through the back streets. The place is mostly clear at the back, as all the men have run to the front line. He reaches a corner and checks left when he should have checked right. A Fox man fires a few shots that miss him from behind and Randleman circles around, his gun at the ready and lets off a few warning shots. A fox soldier is on the other side of the alley, his gun aiming at Randleman.

Randleman and the soldier close with each other and begin a violent dance. At first there are few bullets, each of them drawing heavily on their Family training to skirt around the other and avoid any damage. Soon the deadly aims come into play, with each side landing a hit with the butt of their gun for every four or five that are blocked or dodged. He pushes aside his conscious mind and becomes one with the movement, and all his doubt dissolves away. The Soldier would beat him if he doesn’t finish this quickly, he could feel his calf muscle ready to give way. He lets his training look for that one opening where he can get a clear shot to his temple and end it, but as seconds turned to a full minute he realizes he isn’t going to get it. The Fox man lands a shot to his side with the butt of his gun, a solid blow to Randleman’s ribs and he staggers back, wheezing.  
Every ounce of combat training Randleman has ever received is screaming at him to throw the grenade strapped to his pocket. He just can’t get himself to drop his gun and undo it. The man has managed to grab ahold of his pride with a tightness Randleman can’t believe. 

Behind him he hears Martin shout out and knows he has wasted enough time. Refusing to lower his gun, instead, he aims at the grenade dangling on the other man’s chest. And shoots it, ashamed he has to scope to such measures, dancing back a few paces to get out of range. The man explodes backwards before he can even look shocked. Randleman dusts himself off, and heads to the front line, joining up with his men. Martin eyes the way Randleman is favouring his left side, but lets it slide.

 

-

 

“Thirteen.”

Malarkey peeps his head out again and fires at a moving figure in one of the windows, checking to make sure it’s wearing green. The body falls.

“Fourteen.”

Next to him Guarnere is grinning though the expression makes him look like it’s a grunt. On Bill’s other side, Compton’s rifle is jamming and shaking with every shot.

“Looks like you’re struggling there Buck, want to forfeit the bet?”

“Nope.” Compton shakes his gun again before trying to aim at an upstairs window.

They’ve been steadily advancing now that Buck had them under his command, and now they were just waiting for Randleman to start the diversion in the back streets before they rush into the housing block.

Compton’s left hand fiddles with the gun barrel, steadying his aim, as he tries to shoot. Malarkey casually fires his gun at Compton’s target and hits the guy in the head.

“Fifteen.”

“Ok ok, you’re good.” Compton brushes his forehead and Luz grins at Malarkey, throwing him a wink.

“How about we up the reward?”

“Two bottles of Lucky’s finest?” Malarkey suggests.

Compton flat out refuses and Luz throws Donald a grin as he tries to convince the man to indulge a bit more money. Malarkey isn’t sure how Luz manages it, but Buck’s slowly comes around for two bottles of Lucky’s finest at the pub at a later time. It seems not even Buck can resist Luz’s pleading eyes. As they continue shooting, Malarkey on 15 and Buck hovering around the 9 mark, Buck aims his rifle at the rooftops and is about to fire when Luz stops him.

 

“Are you going to be shooting lefty all night? Just saying because you’re right handed.”

“George, what would I do without George Luz!”

Malarkey looks between the two of the them, eyes wide in understanding as he finally gets it.

“You traitor! How dare you?! I paid you ten dollars so that you would side with me.”

Luz shoots him a cheeky grin as Buck swaps hands and brings down three men in quick succession. Malarkey turns on the blond as well.

“And you! You call yourself a commanding officer? You’re worse than Luz!”

He’s still sitting there, mouth open in shock when Bill pulls him to his feet after one of the buildings in the back street explodes, diverting the enemy’s attention, and he rushes after his Capos, finally charging into the houses.

-

George Luz is smiling with the knowledge that at some point in the near future, he’ll be rewarded with a bottle of top shelf whiskey. In fact, he’s so busy smiling about it that he almost misses the incoming cry of “RPG” from in the park. His head turns towards the sound but he’s pushed to the ground when Perconte jumps on him. He’s about to push him off when the large missile goes whistling past and into the front houses. Luz flops down and looks back into the park, spotting Harry and another figure behind him, a rocket launcher over their shoulders.

“Nice save Perco.”

“I won’t be able to live with myself if that pretty little arse of yours got hit.”

He stares into the Italian’s eyes for a second, judging Perconte’s serious tone. Perconte was actually worried about him. Sweet.

“Don’t worry, you can it a massage later.”

“I’ll hold you to that George.”

Perconte is on his feet, offering a hand down to Luz. Luz takes it and then readjusts his radio, checking it’s still working and connected to Winters. Together, the two small men whiz across the hill in the middle of the roundabout, over to where Buck is shouting out instructions from the porch way of one of the houses.

“Clear the houses.”

Luz doesn’t need to turn around to know Perconte is following him, so he heads down one of the alleys, passing a few other pairs that are working together as they scour through the buildings, shouts of “clear” echoing out of a few. In the others, there’s sound of gunfire.

They reach another house and flatten themselves against the shutters. Exchanging a nod, Perconte smashes the window and throws a grenade in. As soon as it’s exploded, they burst in and check the lower floor.

“Clear.”

 Perconte’s by his side again and they are about to head upstairs when Liebgott, Webster and Tipper burst in.

“Flash.”

“Thunder.”

They echo back, lowering their guns. Liebgott heads over to them as Webster goes to check the back door.

“We’ll take the upstairs.”

Perconte and Luz leave them, moving to the house across the street. Once again they prop themselves in position, Luz readying his gun to smash the window, when he hears a whimper. He pauses and Perconte throws him an expectant look. He bites his lower lip and kicks open the door instead. His gun automatically turns on the family inside, a woman with two kids, a young girl and a boy of about eleven. He wipes his forehead, glad he didn’t throw his grenade at them. He checks behind them in case they are hiding a man. Then he heads out back, checking the other rooms as Perconte heads outside again.

Luz is just about to call out “Clear” when he sees it.

The wife has risen to her feet and is throwing a grenade into the house opposite, right where Liebgott was. He’s so busy looking horrified that he doesn’t see the kids jumping him until it’s too late. They’re laying into him, just kids, not even out of school, yet they are attacking his face with their nails and kicking him in the soft spots, aiming kicks at his gut. He can’t even lash out at them, because they’re kids! How is he supposed to defend himself? He curls up on him and protects his organs.

He hears a gunshot and the mother falls down. The sound of a body hitting the floor catches the children’s attention. Their attention elsewhere, Perconte is able to rush in and pull them off him, throwing them into another room, ramming shut the door behind them, locking them in. There’s the sound of small bony fists slamming into the door but it holds. Perconte and Webster rush over to him and help prop him up, ramming his hat back on to his head, and force him to get to his feet before he’s ready to walk. But that’s ok, he’s meant to run.

“Ah Christ Luz, you got blood all over my trousers.”

“I’m real sorry Frank.”

_

On the opposite side of the street Liebgott rushes back downstairs at the sound of an explosion. There’s dust everywhere, rumble under foot and in the middle of the front room there’s a lone man, barely standing on his own two feet. Joe’s heart catches in his heart as he rushes forward.

_Please don’t be Webster. Don’t let Webster be hurt. Please don’t be Webster._

But it’s not Webster. It’s Tipper.

Joe reaches his side just as the man collapses. Joe grunts at the sudden strain in his arms and tries to wrap one of Tipper’s arms around him. The man is still conscious, so they blindly head towards the front entrance, out on to the street. It’s only in the open road that Joe sees the damage done to Tipper’s face and he has to sit the man down before he faints. There’s an ugly wound all down his side and one of his eyes is all wrong. Joe forces himself to breathe and moves to sit next to him, clutching the man’s head in his hands, whispering sweet nothings into Tipper’s ear as he holds the shaking man.

On the opposite side of the street, Perconte, Luz and Webster exit to find Liebgott trying to stilt the blood flow. Joe can’t even find the energy to be relieved Webster’s safe, he’s too tired trying to care for Tipper.

Luz is there, talking into his radio as Perconte runs off, leaving Webster to kneel down on Tipper’s other side.

“Roe’s at the hospital, you have to get him there.”

Luz’s voice is oddly soft and kind, and it makes the gravity of Tipper’s injury so much more real. Luz gives Tipper a tap on an unhurt bit of his leg and rushes off.

“Guess we’ll have to carry him.”

Webster’s voice is calm and collected, like a Capo’s voice, but when Liebgott searches his face, he can spot the frantic look in his eyes and the chewing of his gum that shows Webster is as freaked out as he is right now.

Webster hands over his bandage, as Joe has already used his on his neck wound, and together they pick up Tipper, gently enough not to cause him too much pain. As Joe holds Tipper’s feet, he notices the huge chunks missing out of them and once again has to force himself not to physically retch on the floor right there. Tipper’s head is leaning against Webster’s stomach, smearing blood all over the grey top. Webster shoots him an urgent look and Joe gets them on the move, before either he or Webster pass out from the mess that is one of their friends.

 

_

 

 

Webster had dropped off Tipper at the hospital, where a busy looking Roe had rushed him off to one of the rooms. Lipton had asked if Webster needed more ammo, and he’s asked for some, just in case. It turns out the ammo comes from the wounded or dead soldiers and Webster tries not to think about it too much.

And now he’s in one of the back alleys in the soldier’s houses and somewhere along the way he’s lost Joe. He spares a moment to hope that Joe’s ok, but that’s not his main concern right now problem. His problem is the Soldier shooting at him.

Webster’s leaning behind a bin, half way down an alley. A meter in front of him, another alley cuts through this one. On the other side of the junction, there’s a fox soldier taking cover behind a crate. They’ve been here for about a minute, enough time for Webster to catch his breathe. And now they’re playing a cat and mouse game.

He’s breathing shallowly as he leans back against the hard wall, his rifle propped up with both of his hands. He’s hoping the soldier on the other side will forget he’s here or just think he’s died. Then he hears it, footsteps coming up the other branch of the crossroads. He listens and is happy to hear Compton’s voice, followed but what sounds like the rest of second squad.

The gangster won’t try to take on a whole squad, he’ll die instantly. So Webster’s safe. As the squad runs through, Compton in front, Webster leaps up and a few guns point in his direction, lowering their weapons once they see who it is and Guarnere throws him a grin, Luz a mock salute. They continue onwards.

“Joe was looking for you.” Toye, along with Muck and Penkala, appear to save joined up with the men safely again, Webster notes as they rush on by. It appears the whole of second squad is moving out again.

Webster nods, but uses their noise to disguise his own as he leaps through a gap between some of the men, crossing to the other side. He slowly approaches the crate where the gangster is hiding.

“Hey Webster, did you get lost at some point?” He hears Liebgott calling him from the flow of men behind him, but he uses the moment to lean around and shoot the gangster, who had been making himself as small as possible in the corner. He turns around and Joe is alone, waiting for him. He jogs up and Joe places a head on his shoulder.  Webster’s arm automatically curls around his waist.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Joe admits calmly.

“I’m here now.”

He doesn’t mean to sound harsh, but he’s in the middle of a gunfight, he can’t get distracted by Joe right now. Liebgott watches him through his lashes and nods his head, understanding. There’s a crash and a coughing man, dressed in Fox’s green, stumbles out into the street. Webster pushes man back through the door he just left with his foot and fires, watching the man fall down in slow motion.

“We need to get going.” Webster turns around and faces Joe again, who didn’t even blink an eyelid at the murder Webster has just committed.

“Lead on.”

They’ve lost the main squad, but they had appeared to be heading towards the Capo’s houses, so Webster and Liebgott chase after them.

 

IV-           Reinforcements

 

Winters, finally, gets the binoculars off Nixon.

“Where’s Dike?”

He’s searching the crowd’s, scanning for the outline of their Underboss.

“He sleeps with the fishes.”

Winters blinks and lowers the binoculars a bit. Shifty doesn’t seem surprised, so he obviously knew, and yet Luz hadn’t radioed him about it. He looks through the binoculars again, locating Buck. They appear to have taken the houses, now they only need to claim the Capo’s flats, and the rest should be easy, as they’ll hook up with Item.

But the men are pinned down, the flats forming an stone wall in front of them. He sighs and reaches out for the radio. Nixon places it in his hand without Winters looking up.

“Luz. Luz. Come in Luz.”

There’s a few moments of static then he hears Luz’s voice chime through the speaker.

“Luz here. You want a statistic’s update?”

“Yes please.”

“We’ve taken the enforcer’s house, the hospital, the park and the soldier’ houses. Our numbers have halved and most of the ones who remain are hurt in some manner. We’ve running low on ammo. We’re pinned down again. The Capo’s flats are like an iron curtain, there’s no easy way of getting through. Once we get through, we’ve going to need more mortars before the assault on the Don’s house.”

“Do you want me to contact Item and get them to assist in the taking of the Capo’s houses?”

Nixon steals his binoculars again, lying down next to him to see over the roof lip. Winters glares at him as he hears Luz speak to someone off the telephone. He thinks it sounds like Compton. And then he hears Harry’s laugh.

“Sir?”

“I’m here.”

“Compton says we should be able to take the flats on our own, and that Item will be sitting ducks if they come in without us providing covering fire. I also forgot to inform you of Dike’s death. Sorry Dick.”

“Never mind George, you kept moving despite your setbacks, that’s all I asked of you.  So what’s your current plan of attack?”

Luz’s dry chuckle sounds distorted through the speaker.

“That’s the problem sir. We’re currently going through the possibilities. The men have cover and we’re spreading out the remaining ammo. We just need to decide on the best way in.”

Winters leans back and looks at Nixon, who is once again staring at his watch. Nixon checks it then turns to Shifty.

“Have you disabled all of the snipers Shifty?”

“I think so sir. I’ve checked and double checked the flat’s roofs, so I think they are clear, but we’re the same level, so I can’t see to be sure.”

“Alright, keep your eyes locked on that roof top.”

Winters listens to the exchange between the two men before switching the radio on.

“The rooftops are clear. Over.”

He hears some talk about getting snipers on the lower rooftops to clear some of the floors. Nixon frowns when he hears this, but Winters can’t see a better option.

The radio remains silent and they sit around waiting for the next move. It’s the sound of the clock coming from Nixon’s constant checking that finally gets to him.

Winters grabs Nixon by his labels and pulls them flush, he’s been to wound up since the start of the fight, not relaxing since Dike had lead the doomed charge up to the Soldier’s houses. And he’s decided this is all Nixon’s fault, somewhere along the line.

“Now what?”

Nixon looks too stunned to reply for a moment, and Winters spots him checking his watch again. He’s about to rip the thing off of Nixon’s wrist when Lewis finds his voice.

“Now the tide turner has arrived. There’s more than a gunfight going on here, so much more.”

Winters releases him, and Nixon sinks to his knees, years of alcohol making him lose him balance. He spots a red armored car driving through the hub, but he’s too late and rushes to the compound side, binoculars stuck to his eyes. He catches a glimpse of the hard face and doubts himself for a whole second before he hears Shifty sharp inhale next to him and knows his eyes haven’t deceived him. He turns on Nixon, Shifty looking away from his scope to watch them.

 “IS THAT SPEIRS?” Winters hand is twitching, curling and uncurling and he knows he’s too angry and he needs to calm down. Luckily he’s with Nixon, who is his closest friend, and Shifty, who is too good a man to ever react badly to his anger or tell anyone about it.

“Told you I could get a hold of him.” Nixon looks smug, and finally helps himself to a swing of his bottle. The gesture reassures Winters. If Nixon is drinking, it means there’s no need for him to keep his head clear, which means Nixon has complete faith in Speirs. It’s this simple gesture that calms Winters down in less than a minute.

“How?” His tone isn’t aggressive any more, merely curiosity.

“Sexual favors.” Nixon wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Shifty laughs from his spot on the floor. Dick nearly hits Lewis but decides against it and grins.

“So, Nixon. Debrief me.” He probably couldn’t have said it any more suggestively, and yet the dark haired consiligere doesn’t even blink, just fixes his gaze on Winters. Despite his possibly dire situation, Winters can’t resist a challenge. Winters stares back but luckily Shifty’s chuckle stops the moment from becoming too heated. They look away at the same time.

“It’s a good thing you told them not to shoot your inside man, or Speirs would be a dead man walking.”

Winters raises an eyebrow.

“Well sir, it’s just that we all know Speirs is extremely clever. He’s smart enough to have heard about the battle and come dressed in our colours, just to confuse us.”

Nixon grins fondly and Winters is once again wondering how on earth he brought Speirs out.

“He’s not one to be trusted is he?” Nixon’s voice still seems oddly fond and admiring, and Winters feels a slash of jealous curse through his veins. His eyebrows shoot up, but he looks through his binoculars, watching the red car pull up at the hospital.

“How can you not trust Speirs?” Shifty sounds concerned as he eyes Nixon, his grip suddenly tight on his sniper rifle again, Speirs never leaving his sight.   
“Well, he's a spy, he's THE spy. His secrets have secrets.”

“And you’re the one that hired him.”

Nixon shoots him a grin and pulls over his chair to the edge of the roof, settling down so he can see the whole compound. Winters eyes him, but drags over his own chair, resting his feet on the lip. Shifty scours the rooftops again before sitting up more comfortably on his knees.

Whatever happens now, it’s out of their control. Winters, at the last second, has a bright idea and turns on his radio.

“Luz, it’s Winters. Our inside man has arrived. Remember not to shoot him.”

He cuts off before Luz can ask what he means and Nixon takes another swig of his drink.

“Let the games begin!”

 

III-             Burn your kingdom down - Lipton POV

 

Lipton’s running through the hospital, checking on every room when he spots a child trying to leave his room. He doesn’t even think, he just grabs the child by waist and spins him back inside. He contemplates barring the door but resists, and moves on. All of their men are on the lower floor, so there’s no need for him to head upstairs so his rounds are over pretty quickly. He reaches the final room to find Roe and another medic fixing up Tipper. He enters the room, leaning against the door frame. Roe senses him without even turning around.

“He’s lucky he’s the only one in need of our attention right now. If he’d have come in earlier, we won’t have been able to spare him the time to fix him up.”

Roe turns around, his hands covered in over fifty people’s blood. His eyes are starting to dim, the adrenaline obviously wore off a few hours ago.

“There’s no need for you here Lip, get out there. We’re going to be moving Easy’s men back to our own compound soon, we don’t need you for that.”

Lipton opens his mouth to resist, but he has nothing so he quickly shuts it and leaves the room, heading towards the main doorway. He checks his pile of supplies on the table is still big enough in case Eugene receives a few more people, then picks up his rifle from behind the desk and heads outside for the first time in hours.

He’s spent so much time indoors that the sun’s in the other half of the sky now. Lipton tries to figure out just how long he’s been in there when a man’s shout drives him to cover.

“INCOMING FIRE.”

He leans against the stone wall of the steps and turns off his safety. He’s not sure whose side the man is on, so he peaks his head out again to check. In the enforcers’ houses alleys, Christenson, now without his hat and his clothes dyed a darker shade of red than the original bright red cotton, is motioning for him to stay low. After a few blind shots over his shoulder to make the men cower down, he rushes over to Lipton on the hospital door steps.

“There’s Fox enforcers still in the houses. Just a few young kids and a couple of wives. But I’m keeping them at bay.”

“By yourself?”

“No, there are a couple of other enforcers, and Cobb just went running off to get us some back up.”

Lipton nods and is wondering if he should stick around here to help when a red car pulls up in front of them. Christenson and Lipton are already crouching and Lipton takes time to thank god for this, or he may have fallen over in surprise. Because, emerging out of the red car, is none other than the legendary Ronald Speirs. Christenson’s nearly shaking in fear next to him, so Lipton supposes he’s meant to be the responsible one here. His eyes run over Speirs red clothing a few times, just to be sure, then he motions for Speirs to watch his right flank as he races across to them. The tall man crouches down with them in the safety of the steps. His green eyes flick to the Enforcer.

“Christenson.”  
“Speirs sir.”  
“I got the name right, didn't I? Christenson?” Lipton watches as true concern crosses Speirs’s face and can’t help but wonder what on earth is going on.

“Yes, sir.”  
“What are you men doing out here?”   
“We're watching the line, sir. There’s a few weak enforcers in the alleys.”   
“Well, keep up the good work. While you're at it, you might want to reinforce your cover.”

 “Oh... well actually, sir, Underboss Dike said not even to bother, that we're only gonna be here long enough to clear out the stragglers.”

“Lieutenant Dike said that, huh? Then forget what I said. Carry on.” Lipton can’t help but smile at the lack of support Speirs shows for Dike in his tone. Any man worth his weight could see Dike just didn’t cut it as Underboss. That didn’t mean Lipton meant half of his time talking about his superior behind his back, but even he couldn’t stop Easy’s men from disliking the man. He wonders how Dike is coping under stress right now.

Christenson’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head when Speirs turns to Lipton, pressing two fingers to the ground to balance himself, his rifle laid across his knees. Christenson makes some shocked faces behind Speirs head and Lipton has to force himself to keep his face straight as Christenson fans himself.  Lipton gulps and the sharp eyes flicker to him, and there’s a hint of recognition in there.

“..Lipton?”

His voice sounds uncertain, but Lipton nods at the name.

“Speirs. I suppose you’re on our side?”

The man flashes him a killer grin. A murdering one really and Christenson makes some sort of comment and rushes away from them, leaving the two superiors crouching in front of the hospital. Lipton focuses on Speirs, not letting his eyes follow the fleeing enforcer. Speirs watches the younger man run before his eyes flick back over to Lipton, casually eyeing him up and down.

“What’s the current status?” Ron asks.

“No idea.” Lipton tries not to shrug.

“No idea?” Ron lets out a small twitch at the corner of his lips and Lipton feels that it’s not from amusement at his jokes.

“I’ve been in the hospital.”

Speirs looks past Lipton and in through the doors.

“You were hurt? Are they ok on morphine?”

“No, I had a dislocated knee earlier but I was organizing the medical supplies in there. So yeah, they got everything they need.”

Speirs nods like he expected this and stands up in one fluid motion. Lipton doesn’t even attempt to be so graceful and pulls against gravity as he straightens his knees, swaying to one side. Speirs lays a hand on him to steady him then lets go the moment Lipton has found his two feet.

“Ok, let’s move on.”

Speirs heads back to his car and Lipton has no choice but to follow him. He has no idea where they are going but it doesn’t even matter to him. As he opens the passenger door, he notices Cobb arriving with a few men, spying Liebgott among them, but they don’t pay any attention to the driver, just rush across the road to the enforcers, throwing salutes his way. He spots Webster at the back and assumes his earlier assumption that Liebgott is here as correct.

 He sits down as shot gun and Speirs starts the car up. Lipton looks around the car and tries not to gag at the sight of a dead body over one of the backseats, discarded and limp like a rag doll.

Speirs catches his line of sight and shrugs.

“He’s the secret security, he’s meant to contact the others in case someone attacks. I thought you might want to avoid backup sweeping in here.”

Lipton nods and notices all the ammo stashed in the back, including more mortars.

“They’ll prove useful.”

Speirs looks away from the road to check what he’s referring to, spots the mortar shells and nods.

“Yeah, if they don’t get us blown up when we get there.”

Lipton inhales quickly but Speirs doesn’t show any fear as he continues down the main road.

“What are you doing?”

Speirs taps his fingers on the steering wheel a few times and watches Lipton’s face before decides it’s obviously safe to tell Lipton.

“Providing a distraction. We’re going to stop right in the middle of the crossroads in front of the Capo’s flats. They won’t be expecting us and though they might fire a few warning shots, they’ll stop out of fear it’s Winters or Nix.”

Lipton notices how Speirs refers to Nixon as Nix like they are close, and yet somehow manages to make the word roll off his tongue like it’s distasteful. There’s obviously a back story there but he doesn’t point it out, out of fear for his life.

“Then we’ll get out. They’ll be so confused that you should have the time to get your men up and across the road before they react.”

Lipton stares at Speirs blatantly.

“Are you insane? Fox will shoot you!”

“Not at first.”

“Then Easy will shoot you.”

“Trust me, they won’t.”

Lipton is still searching for the right way to point out all the flaws in this plan when a bullet cracks the windscreen, the ear shattering noise of breaking glass following it.

“Get down get down.”

Speirs reaches across and shoves Lipton’s head down under the dashboard. Not that Lipton needed telling, he’d done it automatically. And to his horror, Speirs’s head is down too, not looking up to see where they are going.

“We’re going to crash!”

“Relax. I know this street like the back of my hand.”

Speirs floors it, pushing the pedal to the metal. His hand remains on the back of Lipton’s head, so he’s only driving with one hand. Easy don’t shoot at them because of the red exterior but they drive through the gauntlet of Fox’s incoming fire. Eventually Speirs, who has been counting the seconds out loud, turns the steering wheel and makes a sharp left before slamming on the brakes. The car slides several feet across the gravel and the incoming bullets stop. Lipton barely has time to realize they’ve stopped as Speirs is using the hand that was protecting his head to shove him out of the car.

For a moment, it’s like they’ve frozen time together. They stand back to back in the middle of the crossfire, as all bullets stop. The grit of Lipton and the stiff legged swagger of Speirs.  Fox isn’t firing because they aren’t aware that Speirs has changed sides, not yet, they haven’t understood the significance of Speirs’s red suit. And Easy aren’t firing, scared of hitting Lipton with friendly fire. Lipton takes a moment to admire Speirs’s skill. Without even looking, he’s placed them in the middle of the street, with the car providing cover for Lipton from Fox if he needs it. He also turned left, so that Lipton faces Easy and stops them firing, and Ron faces Fox on the other side.

Catching his breath in the sudden silence, Lipton remembers the orders Speirs gave him. He spots Buck, wide eyed as he stares around a wall, and motions to him through a series of hand signals. Luckily Buck gets it because a few seconds later, Guarnere is charging across the empty road to Fox’s side, shooting down the doors to the flats.

And that’s when hell breaks out.

Both sides open fire and Lipton is caught right in the middle of it. But rather than ducking down out of the way, he searches for the man that put him in this position. Spiers is on the other side of the car, starting to take aim with his gun. In the middle of the street, without any cover. Lipton whispers ‘idiot’ to himself before rushing around the car and dragging Speirs into one of the Capo’s flats on the other side. They burst through the door to find several green coated figures staring at them in response. But luckily, in this case, Speirs has a trigger happy finger and he’s already laid a few rounds into them before they can respond. Without talking to each other, they both head over in the same direction, Speirs leading as they head up the stairs. They hear voices and Speirs pops his head up and straight back down again as bullets fly at him. He frowns for a minute but Lipton leans over and pats him on the leg to draw his attention. Speirs watches him as Lipton points to his grenade. Speirs nod curtly then stands up, flinging a grenade of his own over the bannister and charging up to the next floor as soon as it explodes. Lipton follows him promptly and they clear the level. As they move to head up the next flight, footsteps reach them. Fox’s men are coming down the stairs to attack them. They look at each other for a second before sprinting back and sliding behind a piano, completely in sync, as the men file into the room. Lipton unstraps his grenade and throws it, killing a good five of the ten of them. Speirs does the rest with his AK-47.

Together, they form the perfect team and the house is soon cleared of potential threats. Lipton heads back down stairs and is ready to leave the building when he spots Speirs sitting down in one of the chairs.

“You’re not going out there?”

“Not yet no, the men will shoot me. On both sides.”

Speirs rubs the joint where his brow ends and his nose begins and the true grandeur of Speirs actions hit him. The criminal doesn’t have a Family. He’s unprotected. He’s wanted dead on both sides of this war. There’s no one there to act as testimony for his actions, either good or evil. He just...is.

“Why?” The question escapes his mouth before he can even try to control it and Speirs eyes look up to meet his with a tired smile. The man understands he’s not asking why the men will shoot at him, but why he even changed sides at all.

“What other choice did I have?”

Lipton tips his head to the side and is about to ask what he means when the front door bursts open. He opens his arms as if to protect Speirs and Buck, who has just come through the door, hesitates, his gun going from Lipton to Speirs.

Lipton doesn’t move and neither does Buck, confusion written on his features as he looks back and forth between Lipton and Speirs.

“I can explain.” Comes Speirs voice from behind him, almost like a purr and Lipton can’t help but laugh. Taken out of context, one would think they made been doing some else and Buck had walked in on them. Everyone gives him a weird look so Lipton shuts up quickly, but he shoots a vile look at Compton’s gun until the Capo lowers it. Lipton finally lowers his arms, flicking them around a few times to loosen the muscles and moves over to sit next to Speirs at the dining room table.

Buck turns around to the few men waiting outside and they hear his words flicker through to them.

“Alright, Speirs is the inside man. Perconte, spread the word that he’s not to be shot at. Toye, stay here and don’t let anyone enter this room with their safety off. Only let Capo’s in. Malarkey, find the other Capo’s. Lipton’s already here so that leaves four others. Luz, follow me, we’ll need the radio.”

Buck enters into the house, trailed by Luz and they sit down at the table with them. Luz sets the radio in the middle of the table and checks it’s receiving probably, whilst Lipton watch Luz, Speirs watches Lipton and Buck watches Speirs. There’s tension in the air and it isn’t relieved when Bill turns up outside, complaining about having to turn the safety on his gun off.

“If that traitor shoots me, or someone else, I want to be able to shoot him back!”

Luckily it’s Toye at the door, the one man in the world who can calm Bill down. So Bill walks in a few moments later without any gun at all.

“I have no idea why I put up with that pushover.”

Buck smiles fondly at Bill and draws out a seat next to him.

“Because you love him too much. And he feeds you.”

Speirs slowly turns his head, his attention now drawn by Bill and Buck’s conversation. Luz stops playing with the radio and watches Lipton.  Lipton watches Speirs and Bill and Buck stop looking at any one but each other.

“No, Toye doesn’t feed me. Liebgott feeds me. Toye makes for a comfy seat, that’s all.”

The two friends bicker aimlessly between themselves, with Toye chiming in occasionally from the door frame. Speirs continues watching them closely and Lipton starts to recognize that the older man is jealous. There’s a glint in his eyes and tension between his shoulders that hadn’t been there before when it was just the two of them, his eyes never leaving the two capo’s conversation. Jealous? But why? Over the men’s easy fondness of each other? Lipton knows Easy’s men are closer than most, but it shouldn’t come as so much as a surprise. But maybe Speirs hadn’t been on the receiving end of that bond in Fox family, which is why he switched sides.

Eventually Harry files in, as happy as always, followed by Randleman and Martin. Randleman claims the last chair, Martin sits himself on the window seat and Welsh goes rummaging through the cupboards. Bill cuts off Buck mid flow and suddenly Buck is back to being a serious combat leader again. He sees Speirs’s eyebrow lift at the sudden change.

“Right, put the radio on.”

Luz flicks a switch and there’s static, followed by the sound of Winters voice. Again, Speirs shows no outward response, he just stares at the wireless. Lipton glances around, a frown on his features.

“We’re not waiting for Dike?”

“Dike’s dead.” Guarnere replies, his voice stern and lacking any emotion.

“Right guys, have you taken the Capo’s buildings?” Dick’s voice breaks through the static, filling the room.

“We’re still searching the end houses Dick, but otherwise yes. I don’t expect to meet much resistance in them.”

“Good. Then your next objective is simple.”

There’s a pause at the other end.

“You follow Speirs’s orders.”

  1. At this the table reacts with various stages of discontent. Randleman glares at Speirs, who ignores him, Martin lets out a stutter but quickly seals his lips. Bill sighs loudly but it looks like he’s been preparing himself for this announcement. Buck’s eyes register a bit of hurt at no longer being in charge but that soon disappears. Luz lets out a grin at everyone’s reactions and Harry finds                  couple of glasses in the cupboard and lets out a sigh of happiness. It’s only when Lipton feels Speirs eyes on him that he realizes he hasn’t reacted at all. And all of a sudden, everyone is watching him. 



And that’s when Lipton freezes. Because this is who he is. This is what he does. He’s the middleman, the balancer. He’s the man people turn to when they are wondering whether they should trust a guy. Lipton sees the good in everyone, and yet he knows their bad sides too. So the men in this room are all currently turned to him. He’s got to give the go ahead. No one at this table trusts Speirs but they all trust Lipton with their lives. So he’s the one who will decide if they serve under Speirs command or Buck’s.

He can either accept Speirs, trust that he’s not a double agent or he can refuse to work with the man and Buck can continue leading. He watches Speirs again, trying to separate the real man from all the rumours surrounding him. It’s only when Welsh opens a bottle of wine that Speirs lets a frown cross his features and his fingers grip the edge of the table.

And that’s when he realizes that they are in Speirs’s home. This is where he sleeps. That’s his wine that Harry’s helping himself too. This is his dining room and they’re his books and photos lining the bookshelves. Not that he can see a single photo frame, but they are surely around somewhere. And it’s this realization, that Speirs has lost everything, that he’ll never be able to sleep in this house again because he’s helping Winters, that makes Lipton nod in support of Speirs. Buck has a Family, but if Lipton rejects Speirs now, he’ll have nothing left.

No one judges his judgement; they just accept it and Buck motions for Speirs to talk to Dick.

“Ok, I’m in. What’s the plan?”

There’s some noise on the other side and when a voice wafts through the radio, it’s no longer Dick’s but Nixon’s. Lipton catches Speirs’s eye roll, his one outward gesture the whole time they have been in this house.

“Ok. You’ve secured the Capo’s houses. Now that you have them, you do not let them go, understand? There will be no retreating, keep these houses with your lives. They back onto the Don’s house. You seem to have three problems that all seem different. You’re stuck in the Capo’s houses. You haven’t set up the mortars and you haven’t taken the Don’s house yet. All because Item hasn’t hooked up. I recommend leaving the enforcers in the buildings, two at every window, facing the back. Outside, set up a line of mortars. This is your fall back line. The rest is open for Speirs to decide, but remember you need to make contact with Item, their radio has failed. They should be located in the sewers at the back, where Speirs left them. We couldn’t all enter that way, so we made Item trance through the piles of poo instead of us. Are we clear Speirs?”

Speirs barks out a quick bark of a yes in return to Nixon’s friendly tone – and Lipton once again wonders what happened between the two of them- and the radio falls dead. And then, Speirs takes over.

-

There’s a dramatic change in Speirs right away. Whereas before he’d ducked his head down and tried to remain out of sight and out of mind, now that he had his power back, he holds his head high and stands on his feet.

“Lipton, I want to two enforcers to every back window. Turn this place into an indestructible barrier. Harry, I want you on mortar duty. And please put down my best wine. Buck, I want your squad ready in the park behind here. Bill, lead your men in from the left, near the car park. Randleman, you take first squad and get ready to reinforce Buck’s squad as soon as you see Item pouring into the compound. Luz, the second we penetrate the Don’s house, I want you on the radio to Winters. Get them over here. ”

The men around the table stand up and clear out, all a little shocked from Speirs firm tone after months of Dike’s halfhearted suggestions. Bill recovers first. He turns on Speirs at the doorway.

“And where will you be?”

“There’s a building at the end of this row. The Armory. There’s an underground escape route through it and it’s got back up ammo for Fox’s troops. I’m gonna go blast it sky high.”

They all exit out onto the street, Speirs glad to have his gun back in his hands. Bill seems to share the same thought as Speirs and immediately flicks his safety off, subtly aiming it at Speirs.

“You better be ready when I get back.” Is the last thing Lipton hears Speirs state as he jogs off in the opposite direction.

-

Webster has just finished clearing out the last house on the far right, when the small building over the road blows up. Webster falters as he stares at the flames and Liebgott lets out a low whistle next to him.

“Nice. Do you think that had a point? Or are we just ordered to destroy everything now?”

Webster crosses his arms and looks sideways at Joe, whose body is turned towards him, even as Joe stares at the fire. That’s when they see a figure running away from the flames. Instantly Webster has uncrossed his arms and is running towards him, thinking the guy must be hurt. But Joe grips him back.

“Could be Fox.” Joe says.

“And could still need a medic. Who cares if he’s Fox or Easy?” Webster’s furious, his words falling out of his mouth in a quick stream. He’s seen enough death today.

Webster stares Liebgott, as Joe’s eyes widen completely in shock. After a moment he steps back and runs to the soldier, Webster right by his side. As they draw nearer, it’s easy to see the man isn’t hurt, as he’s running flat out away from the fire, not a hitch in his stride. This time it’s Webster that halts Joe and they slow to a stop, watching the approaching figure. They see the red suit and relax their grips on their rifles, but they don’t switch the safety off as the man rushes towards them.

“Shit! It’s actually him.”

Joe sees and recognizes Speirs’s face before Webster, who has only ever seen the man once before in his life and they stand down and throw up salutes as the man runs up to them, saluting back.

“It’s clear that way. You’re best off heading into the park with Buck. We’re about to start the main assault.” Speirs informs them, barely out of breath.

Liebgott nods, the higher authority out of him and Webster, and Speirs motions to them to follow him as he heads back the way they came, to the other side of the Capo’s houses. Webster and Liebgott exchange an astonished glance then follow him at a light jog, turning left into a small park not unlike the one in front of the Soldiers’ houses. Hidden behind trees, they can see second squad spread out, ready to charge forward. Enforcers line the windows and a mortar pit has been dug out in front of the flats. They enter a building behind Speirs and find Randleman and Martin waiting with first squad. Webster spots Cobb and Christenson from the enforcers and throws them a nod. They’re handed ammo by Harry, who has unloaded it from Speirs’s car as Speirs goes over to talk to Lipton.

“Everyone ready?”

“Yes sir. We just need to make contact with Item.”

Speirs rubs at his forearm for a second before leaving the house, back outside to second squad. Webster, Liebgott and Lipton follow him as they make their way to Buck, at the front line.

Webster drops down as Liebgott whispers into his ear:

“He’s almost as scary as the tales around him.”

“At least he can live up to his tough reputation.”

“What are you implying Web? That I don’t?”

“Joe, seriously, you bake cakes.”

Joe glares at Webster but the man smiles at his mocking. A strange silence surrounds them. The eye of the storm.

-

Lipton isn’t quite sure why he follows Speirs out, but something deep in his subconscious is telling him he doesn’t want to miss what’s going to happen next. They are crowded behind an old stone wall with Luz, Buck and a few other high ranking made men. Speirs is leaning next to Lipton, squatting on his heels.

As far as Lipton can work out from Buck’s update, all they need now to solve their problems is to link up with Item. Speirs seems to have reached the same conclusion as he’s looking over the stones to where Item is supposed to be located. He scans the area then turns to Lipton.

 “Get the men ready, I’ll get Item. Cover me with mortar fire to the right flank, but cut it off as soon as Item appears.”

And then with a pat to Lipton’s thigh that makes his head swim, Speirs has run out into the middle of the gunfire.

 

-

At first Fox didn't shoot at him. I think they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. But that wasn't the really astounding thing. The astounding thing was that, after he hooked up with I Family, he came back. 

-

 

Item pours out of the back of the compound through the water tunnels that Speirs had opened for them. They flood across the back of the compound. The mortars stop firing. Somewhere behind Easy’s line, Luz sends a message to the Don. Winters, Shifty and Nix pack up and move forward. The smell of sweat and sewers of the new comers clashes with the iron blood smell of Easy’s men. The hospital is now empty of all its recent influx of patients and Roe sits in his office back at Easy, sorting through the paperwork, trying not to worry that his next patient might be Heffron. Buck and Malarkey argue over their total head shots. Luz refuses to support either one of them. There are craters in the ground every few steps from the mortars. Item and Easy fall into position and surround the Don’s house.

 

-

Nixon, Winters and Shifty pull up outside of the house. Lipton looks over his shoulder and thankfully Nixon still looks sober and steady on his feet. Shifty heads over to Lipton straight away, not even flinching under Speirs’s harsh gaze coming from over Lipton’s shoulder.  Winters follows his sniper and Nixon brings up the rear. They’re standing in front of the house but behind a tree that gives enough cover for them not to be shot at.

“Good job Speirs.”

Winters extends his hand to Speirs immediately and Speirs actually give a small, but real, smile to the ginger. It vanishes as soon as Harry hands the rest of Speirs’s bottle of good wine over to Nixon, Speirs’s eyes tightening. Nixon throws him a grin that’s so full of mirth that Lipton’s sure he’s been blackmailing Speirs. He choices to ignore the whole thing, following Winters example and leans over to hear about the layout.

There’s too many details to take in so he tunes out after a few seconds, and along with Speirs, who knows the house inside out, they eye the mansion.

“There doesn’t seem to be any movement.”

“Oh they’re in there, trust me.”

Lipton turns to watch Speirs.

“They know by now that you’ve betrayed them don’t they?”

“Possibly.”

Speirs’s tone is easy and light but his face hardens and Lipton knows that this conversation is over. Nixon however doesn’t. Well it’s more likely he does but choice to ignore it.

“Well betrayed is a harsh word. I prefer, switching career paths.”

Nixon grins at Speirs and takes another swig from the bottle, Speirs eyes tracing Nixon’s throat. Lipton frowns and turns to Winters. Even Winters can’t ignore the tension between the two, but he looks about as confused as Lipton feels. How on earth did Nixon ever get Speirs on their side?

Winters takes the bottle off Nix and hands it back to Harry and turns to Lipton and Speirs, who have been having a hushed conversation with Shifty.

“You two can lead. We’ll come in at the last second to talk to Albert.”

Speirs and Lipton lead into the house together, side by side. They enter into an empty reception room, and Speirs immediately finds cover, taking Lipton with him. An Item squad files in on the lower floor. They hear gun fire coming from a few rooms down but ignore it, gesturing their men upstairs.  Perconte takes the lead on the top floor, shooting dark figures on the indoors balconies. A few fall over and onto the ground floor a few meters away from Lipton and Speirs but they remain where they are, watching the silent moving Soldiers around them. Eventually Speirs disappears from Lipton’s side, heading down a long twisty maze of corridors.

-

Speirs clicks his safety off and presses himself against the wall. Dominic won’t be expecting an insider to come for him, so Speirs has the element of surprise on his side. Dominic is Underboss and he won’t have taken his compound being taken over lightly. In fact, Speirs had learnt most things about business off of him, he was one of the rare people in fox he could call a friend. He’d observed how Dominic always kept his cool, never revealing his emotions. How he would seek out the Don’s opinion on something first. How he’d gladly lay down his life for something he believed in. His closed off disinterest in everything, even subjects that were important to him. “Never let anybody outside of the Family know what you are thinking” were one of his first words of advice to Speirs.

Dominic is Speirs’s personal role model, not the sad excuse he had for a stepfather, one that kept him locked up his entire childhood. He was still bitter about that, and he looks forward to the row with Nixon he’s sure to have about it at one point.

But right now, he needs his whole attention on the upcoming fight. When you get up close, you don’t have to be good, you just have to be lucky. And switched on to what is around you.

Most people see gun fights as the battle of the quick draws. But Wyatt Earp once said that a steady deliberate aim will win nine times out of ten when battling with a quick draw expert. A fast draw guy always fires an average of four bullets before hitting his mark. So if Speirs’s able to fire one accurate shot right between his eyes before Dom fires a few fast wild ones, he’ll win. He just has to be able to stay calm with bullets whizzing past him. That’s assuming, of course, that the incoming fire is missing him.

He’ll turn around the corner and Dom will look up in surprise from behind his rifle, and Speirs will aim his pistol with one arm. One shot will whizz past him. Dom will have recovered from the shock. Speirs will steady his hand. Another shot will hit the stone behind him.  Two shots. He’ll take aim. Three shots. He’ll inhale the smell of gunpowder. There won’t be a forth shot.

Speirs stands and turns into Dom’s office. Three shots pass him by. The thump of the body of his role model hitting the ground replaces the sound of the forth. He moves on.

 

-

 

“Where is he? Wait until I can lay my hands on that little traitor. I bring him into my family and this is how he repays me? TRAITOR. SHOW YOURSELF.” Albert’s pacing back and forth behind his desk, ranting about Speirs.

Lipton sighs and rubs his hand across his eyes. When he opens them again, Speirs has reappeared. Dick stops trying to calm Albert down and just lets the older man yell at Speirs from behind his desk.

“Finally, the big shot comes to earn his five minutes of fame! Did you expect me to be impressed? That you helped another Family completely wipe out my Family. Imagine if one of the other Capo’s had done that to you, how would you feel?”

Speirs hesitates. Clearly he wasn’t expecting the onslaught on insults coming from the mouth of his former boss. His eyes flick around the room, to Lipton, Nix and stopping on Dick. Winters gives a nod and moves out of the way.

“This is between you. I tried calming him down.”

“I have little time left to live Richard, I’d rather spend it talking to people who catch my attention, rather than your obvious anti-drug rage you’ve got going on here. Now move aside.”

Albert’s glaring at Dick and even Lipton has to be impressed at how unconcerned Albert is about his own upcoming death. Everything is blinded with hate for Speirs, becoming background noise for him.

“Traitor. I hope they write that on your tombstone. No name, no dates, nothing except the word ‘traitor’.”

Speirs seems to have controlled himself a bit more and snaps into action, casually going through the Don’s stuff, his back turned on the man as he speaks.

“Me? I'm dishonest, and a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It's the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly... stupid.”

Lipton looks left at Shifty, their earlier conversation running through his mind. He and Ron had asked Shifty to kill Albert when the time was right, as the Don would be expecting it from one of the Capo’s in the room, he’d ignore the sniper in the corner. 

Lipton steps forward to calm Albert down, his mouth already forming words, but before he can move, Albert aims the gun at Lipton. Lipton freezes instantly, his hands in the air. He has to admit that he is shocked. Lipton is one of the very rare guys that people don’t tend to shoot at. He is the peacemaker, not a warrior. A single thought goes through Lipton’s mind as he turns around backwards, showing Albert he means no harm, catching a glimpse of Albert steadying his gun to shoot at him and Shifty, behind Albert, reaching for his own gun.

_Just don’t miss Shifty!_

Shifty misses.

Three shots ring out but Lipton doesn’t fall. He turns around and stands looking at Shifty, with wide eyes. He sees Albert’s dead body on the floor before he notices anything else, Dick calmly storing away his pistol, not even looking at the man he’s just killed without even hesitating. Lipton was in danger. Winters protected him. As simple as that. 

Shifty’s shot missed everyone, his aim no good in close combat. Winters’s shot had hit Albert right between the eyes. Albert’s shot had missed Lipton.

Now though, he understands why. Because, somehow, he’d missed the fact that Speirs had thrown himself right in front of him. That Spiers is clutching at his stomach, blood pouring out over his hands, his mouth open in a perfect O as he looks at Lipton in surprise. Then, Speirs hits the ground, limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, don't mess with Speirs's bottles of wine on pain of death. 
> 
> This chapter will be edited for the rest of my life, along with a better map, but for now, I need to move on.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am forever sorry for the wait. But this fic isn't dead, it's just that school took over my life.  
> But here is the update, and the next chapter is probably going to my favourite!

 

 

 

-

 

 

This a tale of honour, of loyalty and of trying to do the right thing in a violent world. A story about lost causes and last stands. A story about wandering souls trying to find their place.

 

–

 

“Shit.”

 

“Understatement of the year there Liebgott.”

 

Webster huffs and rips his fedora off his head and jams it up against the windscreen, quickly adjusting the driver's seat to his leg length. On the other side of the car, Joe Liebgott gets in shotgun, laying his pistol on the dashboard next to Webster's hat. In the backseats, Lipton and Dick are struggling to lie Speirs's unconscious form across the back seats. Outside of Nix's car, its owner is chatting into Luz's radio, warning Doc Roe that there is one more severe injury coming his way.

 

When Lipton is finally seated in the back, putting pressure onto Speirs's bullet hole, Dick closes the back door with a heavy thud, gently patting the window, leaving behind a bloody hand print. But before the man can even take a step back, Webster has pulled off, leaving the grounds in a cloud of dust.

 

Webster doesn't even give himself time to think, he concentrates on getting back to the compound as fast as possible. Speirs is bleeding out, and the one way to save him is getting him to Roe's healing hands. He has already pulled out onto the main road before he starts plotting his route. He'll have to weave through town, around the back streets, which means some harsh corners that will unstable Lipton in the back. It's a race against time, every second counts. If Webster takes just one wrong turn, it's game over, Speirs will be dead. But this Webster can do, this is what Webster has been doing since he was old enough to reach the pedals. Hitting the gas hard and trying to outrun the cops.

 

So he branches off the main road, barely glancing behind him as he halts a line of traffic. Joe's head  bumps the roof in the seat next to him and the Jew curses under his breath, posing a hand on top of his hat to keep it on straight. Webster ignores the horns blaring behind him and runs through the next intersection, pushing his foot down, barely able to change gear fast enough to keep up. Next to him, Liebgott's mouth falls open in horror as Webster charges through some traffic lights without slowing.

 

“Red light means stop idiot!”

 

Liebgott's insult is too breathless to be harsh and Webster doesn't even react to his words. The rest of the trip is silent, apart from the sound of screeching tires against tarmac, and a wave of alarms that ring out as Webster passes through. Liebgott opens his mouth only once more, only distracting Webster to tell him that he's missed a time saving turning. Webster's promptly turns them around at the next round about, Liebgott grabbing onto the safety handle above his head, but his face shows no disapproval, only concern for the dying soldier in the backseat.

 

Because of Webster's reckless driving, the cops chase after them at some point, shooting through the window, shattering the windscreen. Webster ducks his head down but keeps driving, sparing a glance at Joe, who has sunk down in his seat, his face a bit pale. Webster's heart beats a little faster and runs his eyes over Joe, asking:

 

“Everyone ok?”

 

Liebgott pats himself down to double check and breathes out.

 

“I'm ok.”

 

He leans over into the back and Webster hears Lipton agreeing that he's fine. Joe leans back after taping Speirs on the leg and picks up his gun and takes aim out of the window at the cops.

 

“Speirs is ok.”

 

Webster nods, and continues, racing through the back alleys, the cop's siren reflecting in his eyes.

 

Eventually Webster enters Currahee, and the cops depart down a side street, not brave enough to enter after him into a known mafia compound, and Web slams on the brakes in front of Roe's, the Cajun already waiting outside with a couple of men. Webster opens his door before the engine has even switched off and helps a ruffled looking Lipton to his feet as Speirs is carried past them, into the clinic. Lipton rushes after the hoard of men around Speirs's stretcher, but Webster leans back against the car as Liebgott rams his hat back on his head and passes Webster a cigarette. Speirs's fate is in the hands of the Doc now.

 

–

 

Speirs, contrary to popular belief, isn't completely unconscious, he comes and goes, reaching for the light before fading back into the darkness.

 

He comes to enough to realise he is a car, and that there is an American swearing under his breath in the front seat as his world seems to tilt on his side. He closes his eyes.

 

-

 

 

The next time, he manages to open his eyes just a bit. There are bright lights overheard, and he seems to lying on a bed, that thankfully this time isn't moving. He has just enough time to see Lipton making a cross sign across his chest before Roe's piercing eyes block his sight of the praying man, shining a bright torch into his iris. He blinks to block out the light and his world remains dark.

 

-

 

Penkala leans against the door,  waiting for Muck. He sighs and watches one of the enforcers, a young lad no more than a boy who is nursing a cut on his arm with a pained expression on his face. Penkala nudges Luz and Muck and walks over to the boy.

 

"You get hit in the arm? A becoming of age gift from the Foxes?"

 

The kid, Ken Webb he thinks the guy is called, looks up with wide eyes, taking in the men casually hanging out in the waiting room at Roe's, waiting for their friends who are being patched up by the Doc and his nurses.

 

"Have a lot of you guys been injured?"

 

 Martin looks up from where he’s resting his leg against Randleman’s upper thighs, his back leaning

 against Harry who is passed out, his bottle dangling from his fingers. Johnny looks at the guy and feels  a little bit of pity for him. He’ll never be made. No matter what happens now, David Webster is too  strong a presence in their inner circle, and their last names are just too familiar for Ken to advance  in this Family.

 

"It's called "wounded", Peanut. "Injured" is when you fall out of a tree or something."

 

Muck looks up from his spot on the floor, taking in the men, and cracks a wry smile.

 

 “Don't worry, there was so much crap flying around, you were bound to get dinged sometime. Almost every one of these guys has got hit at least once.”

 

 

He makes a circling motion his finger, including everyone in the room. Of course everyone in the room is mostly everyone in the Family. Either hurt or awaiting their hurt friends, every single seat is filled by made men, with a few sitting on the floor and leaning against their friend's legs. The enforcers have been pushed outside to make way for the more familiar faces. Muck leans forwards and pats the flop of hair next to him.

 

“Except for Ally, he's a two-timer. He landed on broken glass a few years ago in a car chase, and got peppered by a potato masher.”

 

He moves onto the guy above Alley.

 

‘Now, Bull... he got a piece of exploding car in the Eindhoven district.”

 

He slings an arm around the small dark haired guy sitting against him on his opposite side.

 

“Now George Luz here... has never been hit. You're one lucky bastard.”

 

He points his finger at Luz’s chest who eyes it with a small smile, his lips curled upwards around a cigarette, before flicking it out of his way.

 

“Takes one to know one, Skip.”

 

“Huh, considered us blessed.”

 

He shares a fond smile with Luz who laughs and salutes him, before making sure the young kid Webb is still paying attention. He is, eyes wide as he absorbs all of this information. Skip smirks in contentment, then motions to the over side of the room.

 

“Now Liebgott, the skinny little guy? He got pinged in the neck in the Hub today.”

 

At the mention of his name, Liebgott looks up from where he’d been running his hands through Webster’s hair, who is sitting between his legs, leaning into Liebgott’s body. Liebgott throws a wink at Webb and Webster hits Joe on his thigh. Joe instantly loses concentration at Muck’s conversation and continues running his hands through Webster’s hair, curling it around his fingers. Muck opens his mouth to make some sort of lewd comment about them, but Luz hits him in the elbow and gives him a small shake of his head. Muck looks between Luz’s fond smile and the way Webster has closed his eyes and his humming softly at Joe’s touch and decides to leave the pair alone. He motions to the guy next to Liebgott.

 

“And right next to him, the other skinny little guy, that's Toye. He got shot in his scrawny little butt in the car park. And, uh, Buck got shot in his rather large butt last year.”

 

The pair look up from their chairs and Buck stands up and gives them a twirl of his arse, pulling up his jacket. On the chair, Webb laughs and Penkala smiles from where he’s leaning next to him, whistling at Buck.

 

“Yeah, kind of an Easy Company tradition, getting shot in the ass.”

 

 Muck looks around for his next target and spies Bill and Lipton leaning against the window, looking into the room where Roe tends to Speirs's dire condition.

  
“Hey, even Capo Lipton there, he got a couple of pieces of a mortar shells burst into him. One chunk in the face, the other chunk nearly took out his nuts.”

 

Lipton looks up for a moment before turning back to Roe’s work on Speirs. Bill flashes Muck a smile and a wink and pats Lipton on the arm.

 

“How are those nuts, ma?”

 

“They're doing fine, Bill. Nice of you to ask.”

 

Lipton replies with a fond smile at Bill, before catching Roe’s eye. The Doc motions for him to enter and Lipton sits down by Speirs’s bedside. Roe’s mouth is moving as Lipton stares at the heart monitor, but Muck can’t catch a word. Next to him, Luz throws him an eyebrow wiggle and Skip wonders if they have missed something between Lipton and Speirs. But he recovers fast enough from his obvious overlook on the two as he’s caught sight of Heffron trailing around with huge boxes of morphine.

 

“Hey, Babe, don’t be afraid to stick up for your rights to be an independent woman away from Roe.”

 

-

 

Speirs feels like hell. His mind is burning up and he can’t hear anything above the high pitch static in his brain. He forces open his eyes to see a blurry figure above him.

 

“Albert?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here Speirs.”

 

A hand caresses his hair and Speirs closes his eyes. He really is in hell then.

 

 

-

 

 

The next time Speirs comes around, his world is a lot clearer and he doesn't feel like he's about to pass out at any moment. The white lights cause him to blink a few times but his eyes adapt quicker this time round. He shakes his head gently, and slowly picks himself up and props his back against the head board, remaining in an upright position.  He's dressed in a clean medical robe, and as he flexes his fingers, he notices the fresh bandages on each finger and the smell of burn lotion seeping through them. The skin underneath still stings, so he knows he hasn't been out for long, just long enough for the doc to patch him up it seems.

 

He chews his bottom lip, which is cracked and bleeding slightly, and gently probes the huge strip of white across his belly, hiding his bullet hole from the world.

 

He'd been shot. Actually shot at, by his former boss. No, he hadn't been shot. He'd thrown himself in front of that bullet. Why he had jumped in front of that bullet, he has no idea. Perhaps it was to prove himself, to prove that he wouldn't be the weak link. Maybe it was so he would at least feel some pain at his betrayal of his former family. Perhaps it was so that now, for a couple weeks whilst he healed, people would go easy on him, and not bother him.

 

But deep down, in the deepest reaches of his brain, he knew why he had jumped in front of that bullet. Because that bullet had had Lipton's name on it. Lipton, the only one who seemed to trust him, who followed his orders without question, the only one who could look him in the eyes without shying away. The one who had made him stay back and shoot, rather than charging into the fray of the battle.

 

He had saved Carwood Lipton's life.

 

 

A small smile forms on his lips, so small that anybody who looked in on him would still think his face was black. His lip cracks at the motion and as he goes to lick it, he winces at how sore his mouth is. His tongue feels like sandpaper and his teeth ache all the way to their roots.

 

He's turning towards his nightstand for a drink when a hand appears, the cup in its grasp. Speirs follows the arm up to his owner, and finds himself looking into Lipton's concerned eyes. Unsure how to react, he takes the cup and drains it, plotting out his next words carefully, suspicion seeping into his words.

 

"Why did you answer for Albert?"

  
Lipton’s eyes blink, but he doesn't move. Speaking into his chest, the older man answers, "I.......I just wanted to comfort you, I guess."

  
"You do."

  
_You_ do.

 

–

 

 

 “Shit Webster, I’m sorry, I never got around to getting you that spare bed.”

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it in the morning.”

 

Webster moves to collapse onto the sofa. After having waited in Roe's lobby for a few hours, Nixon had dropped by to congratulate everybody and dismissed them home to their families. Husbands returned home to their worried wives, whilst the rest of the boys had gone down to the Lucky Star to recount their stories to their friends, everyone claiming their right to glory, whilst Luz collected a bottle of the Lucky Star's finest, Buck beating Malarkey by 5 points. Winters had got into a car and was personally visiting the families of the men who had died that day. Webster had followed Toye to outside of the bar, but instead of entering, he found himself being guided towards apartment 150 by a strong hand on his shoulder. Webster hadn't even needed to turn around to know it was Liebgott, but he'd turned around to look at the man away, giving a slow nod. Acceptance.

 

Webster is the kind of tired you get after running about all day. The tiredness that makes your bones drop heavy, the way you have to manually blink in order for your eyes to stay open. The way all the adrenaline has left your body and it needs to restock as you sleep. So now he's hanging up his biker jacket on the coat rack, and wondering if he'll manage to stay away long enough to get his shoes off before he passes out from exhaustion on the sofa.

 

“Like hell you are sleeping there after the day we’ve had.” Joe grabs Webster’s wrist and drags him into his bedroom. He doesn’t even need to bother to push Webster onto the bed, his intention is clear.

 

“Joe, I’m not sleeping with you.”

 

“Scared I might steal your virtue in the night?” Joe’s already undressing, his tie and waistcoat draped over the back of a chair. As Joe peels off his white shirt, exposing himself to the moonlight, he doesn't even look at Webster as he says:

 

“To stay or not to stay? Make up your mind Webster, just don’t make a lot of noise when you climb into bed.”

 

Joe pulls off his trousers, and flops onto the duvet. He’s probably asleep before he even hits the pillow. Webster chews his bottom lip before deciding that the bed truly does look more comfortable than the too small sofa. He undresses, ignoring the blush on his cheeks at the fact he’s getting into bed with Joe, half naked in the dark. He folds the clothes and puts them on the chair, and pulls back the covers to slip in on the other side of bed.

Joe must feel the bed dip as he crakes open an eye, which takes a moment to focus on Webster. Seeing it’s him, Joe hums a content sound and instantly falls asleep again. Webster curls up on his side, his face feeling the soft exhale from Joe’s mouth and he smiles to himself. Before the bed manages to even warm up from their combined heat, they are dead to the world.

 

_

 

"So how am I doing, Doctor?" Spiers asks from where he lies out on a hospital bed in a flimsy paper hospital gown, his hands folded over his stomach. "Will I dance again?"

"That depends," Roe says, looking over Speirs's chart, lingering over the latest test result. Nerve regeneration is moving a little slowly, but it's nothing out of the ordinary and not to the point of being worrisome. Mobility in his extremities moving along right on track in regards to nerve regeneration. All in all, Speirs's doing as well as he possibly can, considering he’d been hit by a bullet less than a week ago.

"On what?"

"Could you dance before?"

"Touché, Doc," Spiers says, tossing Roe a mock salute, grinning in a way Roe normally associates with Nixon and that's got Eugene all sorts of worried for the state of the universe. "Seriously, though, Doc. How am I doing?"

 

“As well as you could possibly be doing. You'll be able to be up and on your feet again before the end of the week.”

 

Speirs nods his head in thanks, and watches Roe depart out of the room. As he leaves, Renée enters, a medical student with French origins, a rare find out here in mafia territory. She bustles around his room, avoiding his gaze as much as possible.

 

“Why are you afraid of me girl? I can't hurt you, I'm wrapped up tighter than a virgin's panties.”

 

She looks at him, and that's the first time he notices the steel in her gaze, an unspoken fierceness in her eyes.

 

“Ah, so you are not afraid then?”

 

She empties his bin, dumping it into a bin bag at the door and he expects her to leave without replying, but his surprise, and delight, she perches herself on a chest of drawers directly opposite him and says, with a slight crisp accent in her tone.

 

“To be honest sir, I don't trust you. And it may go against God, but I'm stop even sure if you deserved to be saved.”

 

Speirs raises his eyebrow, overjoyed to finally be able to have a conversation with someone after a couple of weeks locked up, doing nothing. Even if she seems to be settling in to insult him.

 

“You betrayed your family, your friends, the men you called your brothers. Now I'm not a fan of this mafia world, but I worry for Gene. And, as you should know, actions lie louder than words. What's to stop you from doing it all over again as soon as we have patched you up?”

 

He stays silent for a few moments, glaring, listening to her catch her breath, wondering if he'll be intimidating enough for her to leave without him ever answering. But, she remains put, and he thinks carefully before sitting up straighter and looking into her eyes.

 

“In war, the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you'll be able to function as a soldier is supposed to function: without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends upon it. Now, if we take into account this extremely logical reasoning, you'll understand how I view the world. Ask yourself this, what other choice did I have? My Family was a group of dead men walking, too weak and already doomed to die by Easy's hands. If I'd have stayed, I'd be dead. Now Nix here, he rings me up, tells me my family is going to die and there's nothing I can do about it. But he offers me shelter, a stable life with Easy, a job prospect. I only had one choice, I had to take him up on it. It's best to be wanted by at least one Family out there.”

 

He falls silent after his speech and just stares at the young nurse. She pinches her lips, but he gives her no room to argue, so she simply looks at him for a few minutes, before nodding, agreeing with him, or at least with his logic, and picks up her bin bags and disappears from view, leaving Speirs alone yet again.

 

–

 

 

“You wanna ask me, don't you?”

 

“Ask you what sir?”

 

Speirs is lying in bed still, his last day in the hospital after two weeks of sheer boredom, and Lipton is sitting in the chair next to his bed, his feet resting on Speirs's bed, completely at ease as he plays with his pen knife. The last couple of weeks have been lonely for Speirs, even though he gets countless visits from Dick and Nix, but Lipton's visits are the ones he looks forward to, as the man understands that sometimes, the silence doesn't need to be filled.

 

“You want to know if they are true or not...the stories about me. Did you ever notice with stories like that, everyone says they heard it from someone who was there. But then when you ask that person, they say they heard it from someone who was there. It's nothing new, really. I bet if you went back two thousand years, you'd hear a couple of centurions standing around, yakking about how Tertius lopped off the heads of some Carthaginian prisoners.”

 

Lipton looks at him, surprise sliding across his face as he's never heard so much come out of the injured man's mouth. But he smiles at Speirs's comparison and adds:

 

“Well, maybe they kept talking about it because they never heard Tertius deny it.”

 

“Well, maybe that's because Tertius knew there was some value to the men thinking he was the meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the whole Roman Legion.”

 

Lipton falls silent, and flips shut his knife, storing it away in his pocket. Speirs tries not to let his face drop at the fact that Lipton is sure to be leaving soon and that their conversation will once again be over. But it's his last day, by tomorrow, he should be a free man again.

 

“Sir? My men aren't really concerned about the stories. They're just glad to have had you as their leader back there at Able. They're happy to have a good leader again.”

 

“Well, from what I've heard, they've always had one. I've been told there's always been one man they could count on. Led them into countless gun fights, held them together when they had the crap drilled out of them by Sobel. Every day, he kept their spirits up, kept the men focused, gave 'em direction... all the things a good combat leader does.”

 

Speirs looks into Lipton's eyes as he speaks, but the fair man is looking down and to his left, a tiny quizzical frown upon his features.

 

“You don't have any idea who I'm talking about, do you?”

  
“No, sir.” It sounds almost like a sigh escaping from Lipton's lips as his eyes flick up to Speirs's.

 

  
“Hell, it was you, Capo. Ever since Winters has been made Don, you've been the leader of Easy Company.”

 

Lipton looks away, bashful, with a smile on his face. A smile that grows wider when he turns back to Speirs with his reply.

 

“Oh, well I'm not going to be their leader much more, Speirs.”

 

“Lipton?”  
  
“Winters put you in for the spot of Underboss, and Nix approved on your behalf. You should get the official notice in a few days. Congratulations, boss. Welcome to Easy.”


End file.
